


The Morass of Consequential Strangers

by Seresea



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Multi, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22174780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seresea/pseuds/Seresea
Summary: Taking place after the generalized recall of the Overwatch members by Winston, and prior to the event in Paris thereafter, the links between characters are explored through an overarching plot that will, once completed, expand farther forward than current canon dictates.  Whilst the attempt is to keep the story as close to the canon as possible, there are simply holes and shortcomings that will be filled with personal work and interpretation.What ever could be the intention of the unnamed advisory to the disbanded league of former superheroes, and what could be their intention in their attempted network of devious spies and dark-web hackers?—while some run from the chance to, once again, become a hero in their own right, others propel themselves back towards the opportunity with gumption.  Some realize loves long lost, others find new blossoming relationships, and, then, there are those who only live in the self-created darkness of their past, hopeless and fore lorn, forgone and forgotten.
Relationships: Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe/Jesse McCree, Hanzo Shimada/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. Hanzo.

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will be from the perspective of a different individual, though it will tell a full and cohesive story at the end. Expect characters’ point of view chapters to be repeated as the story progresses, and while I do hope to write from everyone’s point of view, some may not be drawn into the mix until far later. Enjoy :)

**HANZO**.

_Away, away, o’er the grey mountains, grasslands, an’ ‘cross the dark waters,_

_He sat squat in his cave—gold plated scales and silver crown—preening o’er treasure._

_Vicious, malicious, sinful was his ancient greed,_

_Hateful as his smile, full of dagger‘d teeth and forked tongue, the dragon wailed._

She stood out like a golden beacon in a sea of brown and black silk.Her hair, tussled by the winter breeze that rolled landward off of the Pacific, had attempted to be put up into a manageable bun.However, loose curls—natural or styled, he didn’t know—fell out of the small black bland she had used to twist the locks upward, and floated around her porcelain face like whispers of honeyed strands.Delicate fingers attempted to tame the wild mass of curls; the occasional manicured finger would attempt to tuck a wayward strand behind her ear as she talked to the vendor, an ancient woman whose black hair had long since faded to stark white.The elder lady, barely chest-height to the Swiss doctor, grinned up at her client as gnarled hands quickly worked the iron pans in front of her as she pressed batter into molds and fired some eggs on a flat-top.All the while, her eyes, what would have been a chocolate brown but were faded with the milky beginnings of cataracts, watched the angelic face of Angela as she asked questions of the vendor woman and her past.Rather or not the good doctor was truly interested in the life of a hard-working, third class citizen of Japan, he did not know, nor did he care—he did, however, acknowledge that her demeanor was slightly addictive.A smile by her would cause an eruption of grins, and the graceful politeness that she exhibited was something horribly missed in today’s society... people had forgotten what it was to be kind, himself included.

His politeness was limited to a cool and collected demeanor, which acknowledged the lack of familiarity between he and them, driving to the point the class difference.He wasn’t ever mean, but his calculated interactions dripped with the disassociation he had when it came to understanding the mindset of what better people would consider ‘the _poor_ ’.Their trials and tribulations that ranged from scrounging together coins for rent and groceries, to maintaining an occupation which overworked them for embarrassingly low pay, were beyond his ability to comprehend.Not that he, himself, never had his own difficulties to overcome—he had plenty of barriers that he had to hurdle himself over, no doubt—but money, or the lack thereof, was never one of them.So, when Angela slipped the elder woman a crisp bill, and the woman, at first, shook her head for she couldn’t accept such a high amount for a little koi fish waffle, he arched his brow to wonder why.Why had she opted to give so much money—something that she surely didn’t have a lot of anymore, what with the dismantling of her primary employer—to such a feeble character?Kindness?— _selfishness_ , more like.After all, who ever donates charity out of pure sincerity?—all do it for one of two reasons: either it makes them feel good, or they gain some sort of honor from it, which boosts them forward in the eyes of the populace.Considering that she was supposed to be hiding, it had to be the former of the two options.

A gust of wind whipped through the crowd; squeals from the crowd rose in union, protesting the sudden dip in temperature below what was considered the average for Tokyo.School girls in their skirted uniforms sprinted close to the tall buildings for coverage, businessmen bundled themselves in heavy pea-coats that they had unearthed in the bowels of their closets, and Angela pulled the hood of her thick wool coat up over her blonde hair, the fur lining adding a silvery halo around her peak.Again, it was another thing that made her stand out—no one who resided, truly, here would have owned a Swiss produced coat.The winters, normally, were simply never cold enough to warrant anything that thick, nor stuffed with down.The white wool faded to white leggings, and the cuffs of her little wedged boots were lined with the same silver faux fur that peeked out from under the hood of her coat.She had been relatively easy for him to find with very little resources used—a phone call to an acquaintance in the airport, and he had her arrival time, the destination of the cab she had taken, and the knowledge that her ticket had been a one-way—which, while it made finding her easier, it made his job a bit more difficult thereafter.If he, the dethroned heir of the Shimada family, could locate her in a city of millions with only one favor, there were those who could find her much more quickly and just as effectively.

Hanzo slipped through the crowd after her effortlessly.Lithe frame dodged through packs of people, ducked around tourists with their cameras and slack-jawed mouths agape, moved around stands and vendors—he blended much more easily than she.Granted, he was slightly taller than the average, but his clothing was of muted, casual colors, and it allowed him to fade into unremarkable memory.His jacket, made of a soft cotton-wool hybrid, created no noise when he moved his arms; the jeans he had selected looked no different than what most would wear out to run errands; his ‘kicks’—as the kids called them—were a simple white Nike shoe... hair, black as ink, save the few streaks of silver, had been pulled back into a tight topknot on the back of his head, and his beard had been oiled and manicured so its crisp lines outlined the contours of his face, showing off the strength in his jawline.Something, he liked to think, that Genji had lacked... amongst a lot of other things, such as maturity, duty, and honor, to name a few.Of course, now, one could argue, that he, too, lacked those elements in his life.He was no longer chained to his father’s lineage—he, a crime lord prince no longer, was _free_ —nor did he feel the weight of his family’s dynasty upon his shoulders.He had forgone his rightful place on that throne; a seat made of blood, which had cost countless innocent lives to construct, was nothing more than a tumor to his hometown and his family.It was a cancer; it had long since ripped apart the Shimada family in its demand for reparations paid in assassinations and power, and, while he had situated himself there for a short period of time, when it had demanded the life of his own brother, he had felt, for the first time, the indication that it was an illness...This Shimada pride, this ancient figurative throne, was a disease, which ran deep into their bones, and, like a parasite, fed off their desire for importance.

Money was not worth the lives he had taken, power was not worth the price of his brother’s head, and his father’s approval was, to him, about as valuable as a chewed piece of gum, now.Of course, some ten years ago—had it already been that long?—it was.He was the golden child—the heir—and his father’s beloved prodigy.He excelled at his training, he became a deadly shadow utilized to snuff out the flames of individuals who had dared to raise a controversial word against the Shimada family, and he valued his father’s lessons in control and power.Contrary to his brother, who, while he trained, also whored, gambled, and partied his time away in fits of drunken shame.Now, with the maturity gained from the revulsion of his family’s heritage, he saw that his brother’s decisions had been those made by a trapped man, who was chained to a life that he did not feel was right, but also felt he must learn to love.His brother, the wild, unpredictable lost cause, was the morally straight son—ironically, it was Hanzo who valued the inflexible, linear perfection which was an arrow, but it was also he who couldn’t see the wrong in the assassinations he performed with that very weapon.Genji, who valued the use of his sword, saw the flexibility in change—he had managed to turn away from the cruel demands of his family, and, while it had earned him the disownment of his father, and the assassination attempt by Hanzo, himself, he was, if rumors were right, doing more than Hanzo could ever wish he could to regain his honor by simply doing what was good.

He was _jealous_.

Genji had his life gifted to him on a silver platter—he had thrown that away in exchange for a biotic suit made by the revered Doctor Angela Ziegler, and was now galavanting around the globe with instructions issued to him by... whom..?The remnants of a would-be superhero command center?But, either way, these commands weren’t sticky with blood, nor did they reek of self-promotion.They were things such as preventing assassinations, rescuing children from war torn regions of the globe, stopping unjust invasions... and he, Hanzo, the better of the two, was stuck roaming the world in a cynical attempt to climb his way to redemption.Why?—so when he died he would go to a better place..?No, he wasn’t a religious type.He was doing all this selfishly.He simply _wished_ to feel better about himself and his skills.To think, somehow, his lack of a normal childhood and his sacrifice of a normal family would be worth something in the end, and, that when he finally died, there would be at least one person to come to his funeral that would say, at the minimum, ‘ _Here lies Hanzo Shimada, who tried to be good._ ’

And she?—she was his key.

Hanzo knew his brother.Genji had a hard time letting go of a stuffed animal when he was a child, and that was just a toy.A beautiful doctor who had saved him from the brink of death, who nursed him back to health—both in body and in spirit—and sent him on his way to being a man of respectable code..?—Genji would have never lost contact with her, even if he wasn’t always able to be with her.Hanzo knew, too, that it was more likely the former than the latter of the two options.If Genji was nothing more than an Omnic from his chest down, he would know that he could provide nothing more to this Doctor Angela Ziegler than a friendship, and in an effort to hide himself from her own creation, he would always be within a stone’s throw if she were in danger, but he would be absent from her life, predominately.Thus, therein, lied his opportunity.If he could reach his brother and speak to him for longer than ten minutes of fighting, there was a chance that the Shimada brothers could, once again, be reunited under a better, more moral banner of supposed ‘ _do-good_ ’.However, this line of thinking was not difficult, and he knew that even the most dense individuals who ran the territory once held by the Shimada clan would have also devised this thought.Thus, Japan would had to have been the one worse places she could have possibly came to sneak away from the rumored recall that was put out for the heroes of Overwatch.She should have stayed in the desert; bombs and gunfire had the benefit of being much more noisy than assassins in the night.

“ _Sumimasin_ ,” a man said as he bumped into Hanzo from behind, immediately bowing apologetically, backing up to fade into the crowd.

“ _Shitsurei shimasu,_ ” Hanzo responded; his eyes left his target briefly, out of reaction, to find the individual who had knocked into him—the voice, though formal and quiet, was oddly familiar... like a distant memory.Some long lost calling of someone he once knew that was muffled and echoed, and he could not place a face to such a voice.However, there was a lurch in his stomach as he realized that a remembered voice—rather, anything of notable recognition—would mean the familiarity would have belonged to an individual tied to the rotten underbelly of crime, drugs, and, generally, dangerous people.The likelihood that an individual of such character would have been right here, right now, by chance was minuscule.The bump was on purpose—a check to see if he had his bow, his sword, a dagger... any sort of weapon, and to make look away from the blatantly obvious, hoping to be discreet, doctor in white.He spun ‘round, and saw her take a corner.

Hanzo jogged after—his hands outstretched as he parted the crowd, muttering apologies to those he gently shoved out of the way—attempting to quickly shorten the distance between himself and his quarry.He tore around the corner, and was suddenly out of the crowd.The alley that she had turned down was vacant—her footsteps echoed up the tall buildings that stood like fortresses on either side of the thin strip of roadway and sidewalk—and was the perfect location for an abduction, or something of a bit more permanent resolution.Brown eyes quickly left her, looking upward—the windows reflected the bright, grey sky, hiding anyone that could have been leering out from within—and, while the metal fire escapes were empty and pulled upward from lack of use, they would have made it easy for anyone with even a thimble of agility to slip from above to the street below.Cursing, he jogged after her, suddenly feeling naked without his bow.

Hearing the footsteps rushing up towards her, she turned, puzzled.In her hands, the little koi fish waffle had been half-eaten.A strip of bacon, some egg and cheese, poked out of the golden dough; she offered him a confused, but friendly smile.Her blue eyes—the clarity of which was not done justice enough, he suddenly realized, in the photographs he had managed to get of her during his planned hunt—were behind thick, tortoise-shell frames.He blinked for a moment—had he not noticed the glasses?—and wondered why, of all people, a doctor who could repair almost any ailment would retain poor vision?Surely, he thought, it was a naive attempt at hiding her face from those who may have been able to recognize her.Such a poor job she had done—it was a wonder she had made it this far.Her face, clear skin brushed to a faint pink tinge by the sharpness of the winter wind, showed no signs that she had ever set foot in the Middle East, and, he thought, if he were to reach out and touch her, she would feel soft and warm, like powder.

“Hello,” she smiled at him, “can I help you..?”

Hanzo had gone blank—what was he supposed to say? _Hi, my name is Hanzo Shimada, and I tried to murder my brother, but you saved him, and I was hoping that you could tell me where he is...?_ —that, he guessed, wouldn’t cut it.Some lie, he knew, but what, he was blank to.Thoughts raced through his mind; ask her for directions?—no, he looked exceedingly more local than she—tell her she dropped something?—he didn’t have a single thing he could even remotely begin to offer her that was even in the slightest bit likely enough to have been dropped by her—simply tell her she was in danger?—that only worked in stories, realistically—just hit her over the head and take her?—it was broad daylight, and, sure, no one would have noticed it at this exact moment in time, but what would he do with an unconscious woman in the middle of the day in Tokyo?

“Doctor Ziegler?”A voice called from behind her, saving him the trouble of an answer. 

He watched as the pink flush drained from her face, and she turned around, away from him.The koi fish dropped from her hands, and fell with a soft crunching thud to the pavement.He took a small step to the side, peering around her and down the alley from which the voice came—that same familiar voice he had heard earlier.It had, indeed, been a former employee of his family checking to see what weapons Hanzo had on his person.A sneaky act to be sure, and a smart one.After all, who would want to fight a dragon when it had all its teeth?—there was no honor in slaying a crippled serpent, but it would certainly elevate one’s chances.

“Where is Genji Shimada?”Thickly accented, but demanding all the same, the voice echoed down the alley where, suddenly, the sounds of the city were absent, “Tell me—he is needed by his, ah, family...”

Surely Genji would have told the good doctor about the ill part with his family—the type of people they were, and the notoriously ill-willed they employed—and she would see this bluff.He scanned the man’s face—a round, puffy piece with heavy lidded, slanted eyes, no facial hair, and a plump nose—and could finally place him.The last time he saw this man—this unnamed bodyguard—was when he was welcomed in the Shimada castle, standing next to some column or other.This man, whom had been low under both Hanzo’s father and himself, seemed to have risen a little since the dismantling of their family’s regime.He couldn’t remember if the man was a good fighter, though, and that was the most important memory to have.

“ _Who_..?”There was a note of panic in her voice, but she maintained her cool.Hands, now free of the snack she had purchased for five thousand yen, quickly found her pockets.Was she armed?—maybe, he thought, he hadn’t given her enough credit.

“Genji Shimada,” the man responded, taking a few steps towards her; he was speaking to her—at her—though, Hanzo noticed, his eyes were on him, “we know you speak with him, yes?Letters...” he held up a hand, full of thick envelopes, beautiful handwriting brushed across their worn faces, “...from you to him.They, sadly, did not find him, did they?”

As the man continued the approach, she stepped back, bumping into Hanzo.She quickly glanced back up at him, a plea in her eyes that begged him not to be in alignment with the shady figure down the way, but she returned her gaze straight down the alley, “I do not know of whom you speak, sir.I am so very sorry.”

“Liar,” he said, his voice suddenly a hiss, “if Genji did not get these”—he threw the letters, the papers and envelopes scattering the pavements—“then he would have _found_ you.”

Hanzo suddenly realized why she was here.She hadn’t heard from his brother—his brother hadn’t received her letters—they must have had a failsafe.A location and a time to meet, if something seemed to have gone awry... just to verify if both of them were okay.Was it here—in _Japan_?

“I know no Genji, nor do I know any... who?—Angela?”She was a horrible liar.

The man scowled; she was being difficult.He knew that he would have to take her to his superiors to do what interrogators do best, but he also knew that in order to do so, he would have to go through Hanzo.They both wanted the doctor—both for the same reason—but, she was lucky enough that Hanzo had long since parted ways with what procedures his family thought best for extracting information.At the very least, too, he would leave her alive.The remains of what had once been the Shimada crime family would murder her, and leave her in a forgotten grave to be lost to time and history.

“What is your name,” Hanzo asked the man down the alleyway, “for you to talk to a woman as such?”

“As if I would tell you,” he snarled; the attempt frightened Angela, but Hanzo only saw the fear in his eyes, “ _You_ should know.”

“I, sadly, do not remember you,” Hanzo stated calmly, he reached out, pulling Angela behind him, “that must make you rather unremarkable.”He felt her hands grasp his arm, anchoring herself to her sudden savior.

“I _am_ known,” the man said, his lips wet with spit as he glared at Hanzo, “I have risen to great honor since _you_ left.”

“Oh?”Hanzo’s eyebrows arched, “Who rose you up, then?Certainly, none of mine.We dragons are few and far between, now.”He felt her grip loosen on his arm—she was a quicker wit than a liar—but she didn’t let go.

“What can you do, Hanzo?” The man grinned at him; he had a golden tooth, “You do not have your bow.”

Hanzo shrugged, “That _was_ clever... that thing you did in the crowd.But, I need no bow for you.You, who would have hurt someone defenseless, do not deserve the warrior’s death that a bow would have provided.”

“Death..?”She muttered to herself, and he felt her shiver, “Who is he..?”

“We need Genji,” he said, stepping closer.Hands, now free of letters and hindrances, and kind facade long since faded, reached beneath his coat, pulling free from under two sleek daggers, “Or you, Hanzo.Preferably the younger one, though.We will not get what we need from you.I heard he was a _robot_ , now.”

“You will have a difficult time taking me with those,” Hanzo said, “and my brother is untouchable.”

“To you, but not to her,” the man gestured at Angela, who suddenly tightened her grip, “So, she must come with me.”

“She will not,” Hanzo shrugged again, “but, you can try to come and get her.You will not survive if you do... think carefully.I do not even remember you... you do not stand out, so you were mediocre at best.Do you really think you can win against me, armed or not?”

The man hesitated, “How do you not know if there are others here, watching you through a scope?”

Hanzo truly did not know.Truth be told, he couldn’t see through the uncountable amount of windows that stretched high to the tops of the apartment buildings on either side of the small street.If the man was smart, he _would_ have had an associate with him—someone in the distance—that could assist him or provide him cover to escape if the plan had gone awry.He felt her shift behind him—she was looking up to the windows, attempting to see through the reflection he could not—and her grip tightened more on his arm.She knew if she ran, one flick of the man’s wrist would find her with one of his knives in her back, rather he was there or not.She also knew that, regardless of who he was or what ties he had, he did step forward in her defense.She knew, no matter his intentions, that he at least wanted her alive.Better odds... she was smart to fall so willingly against him, even though the most he had done was put himself between she and her assailant.Lucky for her, her intuition was right.Unfairly for him, however, she knew who he was far too soon than he would have liked.

The man adjusted his stance—a nervous shuffle of weight—and the daggers caught the overcast winter sky.For a moment, there was a brief shimmer of light on one of the blades.The surface was slick, like a mirror, polished with care... maybe.His eyes narrowed, and he looked deeper at the weapons.Sure, from a distance they looked expensive—possibly honed by a master who would have inlaid his mark just below the hilt on the blade—but, he noticed how pristine they were.There were no swirls in the metal from where it had been folded and beaten thin in the forging; no notches or dings from swordplay had been smoothed out of the edge; the handles hardly appeared to be fitted for the user’s grip; and, from what he could note, there was no master’s mark in the blade.Expensive?—possibly a monthly stipend, he imagined, purchased them from a little tourist’s shop that sold replica samurai swords.These blades, knock offs of what his father’s men would have received upon their hiring, were nothing more than hammered iron coated in polished aluminum.Hanzo could, more than likely, snap them in half with his own hands.There would be no honor in a fight, if the man did press forward.

“If there were, you would not have suggested there are,” Hanzo frowned at him, “May I suggest that you go, run to whomever requested you do this asinine thing, and tell them that the doctor is under my protection..?Maybe then, they will send you out with real weapons, and _not_ cheap imitations.”

The man looked down at the daggers he was so bravely wielding.Nerves had begun to get the better of him—he was shaking, ever so slightly—and his palms were sweaty.The cheap faux leather hilts of the daggers were wet with his sweat, the dye beginning to stain his hands, and he let them go.They clattered to the pavement—one blade snapping in half—and he straightened up, glaring down the empty street at Hanzo, “I _will_ tell them, Hanzo.”

Hanzo offered a pitiful smile out of the corner of his mouth, and a bow of his head, though his eyes never left the man, “ _Totemo kansha shite imasu._ ”

“Do not think they will not come after you,” he said, slowly backing away, ignoring Hanzo’s courtesy.

“I know they shall,” Hanzo answered, “and hopefully they will not think to sacrifice some unbeknownst lackey that way.Do realize they care naught for you... they sent you with fakes to do a job that is warrant of someone of higher caliber.This was a suicide mission, friend.”

The man’s brow wrinkled with hatred—he had too much pride to take the warning seriously.That mentality, Hanzo knew, would get him killed.In fact, that attitude probably was what landed him in the precarious situation he was currently in, “It was not.Not until you showed up.”

“Do not think for a _second_ that they did not think I would be here,” Hanzo took a step forward—he felt her move with him—and he raised his head in pride, his jaw parallel with the ground, “tell them that.Tell them that I will finish what my brother began.Tell them I _will_ come for them, if they are trying to begin the empire once again.Tell them it will take more than iron _toys_ to stop me.”

The man spat at Hanzo’s feet, and tore away down an adjacent street leaving nothing more than some broken blades as indication of his presence to begin with.

Hanzo hesitated a heartbeat before he stepped forward, turning around to face the doctor that had repaired the damage he had caused his brother.Azure gaze was warily staring at him beneath neat, dark brows, and she had, somewhere in the commotion, bit her bottom lip—a small smear of blood veined out over her chapstick in delicate trails of glittering vermillion.Her golden hair had given up on the messy bun she had attempted, and floated around her head in tussled waves, shivering in the breeze.Her glasses had slid down to the tip of her nose, which had made her seem younger than her engineered genetics already had.He wanted to push them back up her nose—it annoyed him that she didn’t seem to mind they were sitting ungraciously where they were not supposed to be.Her hood had slipped down, and she had slipped her bare hands into her jacket pockets.

“So, you are Doctor Ziegler,” he stated.

The pink was back in her cheeks—rather it was because of the cold or because of the commotion, he did not know—and it suited her, “You are Hanzo.”

“I am,” he bowed his head.

“You tried to kill your brother,” her accent made her statement sound like a song, through it was clearly a sentiment meant with insurmountable distaste.No smile curved her lips for him, no polite question was given to him, as she had the little vendor with the waffle stand.

He offered a nonchalant nod, “Yes, I suppose I did,” she scowled at him, “and I suppose I would do the same again, if I were in that position.I am not any longer, though.”

“Why was that man after me?” She ignored his attempted revelation of virtue.

Hanzo gestured over his shoulder where the daggers remained in the street, “Oh?Him?The same reason why I need you, Doctor Ziegler.But, I will not kill you before or after you help me.”

“... to find Genji?”She was chewing the inside of her cheek—an attempt to hide her nerves—and he noticed her shoulders tighten as she sighed, her brows relaxing, “I do not know where he is, truly.”

“Why are you here, then?” He asked—genuinely, it had been her presence here that had led him to think he may have been able to catch up with the ghost that was his younger sibling—and he shook his head, “This is not the place for you.All it will do is resurrect old demons—the wrong people will think you are here with him, and they will think he is back for what they have, because it is his by blood.”

“But, he gave that all up,” she frowned, her eyes falling away from him to look past him at the daggers, “and I came here because...”

Hanzo took a few steps back, stooping to pick up the one knife that remained intact.He turned the blade over in his hands; it was awkwardly heavy, made without knowledge of balance, and felt loose and flimsy, even with the slightest of movements.The hilt was made of a thickened plastic—painted to look like metal—and the handle was not even faux leather, but a plastic fabric, like that of a picnic tablecloth.The edge wasn’t sharp, but the point would penetrate skin if thrusted hard enough, still the same.How he didn’t catch this sooner, he did not know—maybe, he was getting too old for this nonsense of ninjas and assassins, and the limp glory found in attempted modern recreation of the samurai.He took a few steps forward, holding the dagger hilt out towards her, for her to take.

She arched a brow, taking hold of the knife, turning it over in her own hands.She was inspecting it as much as he had—her years in Overwatch did not leave her a fool.While it was obvious that violence left a sour taste in her mouth—like bile—she was not naive to its existence.She was no innocent dove.She had killed someone before.He could tell.Though, it was obvious that it had left her scarred, “I can not find him, either,” she admitted, “and he told me that he would always find me if I tried to find him.I thought, maybe... I don’t know, maybe he was here?”

“Is it true,” he frowned, “that agents have been called on?”

She immediately looked up at him, “I don’t know.”It was a lie.Terrible liar.

He decided to not press the matter, “Where are you staying?”

“A hotel up the way,” she gestured down the alleyway, “it was the only place that took the reservation without identification.”

“Did you leave a name?”

“Margaret Thatcher,” she frowned—she knew it was bad before he even had to say anything.

“Anything important there?”

She shook her head, “No, why?”

“They will come back,” his eyes rose to the ominous windows, the glare from the sky still keeping their interiors a hidden mystery, “and quickly.They will not all be jokes like that one.Come with me, and I shall keep you safe.”

She chewed on her lip, “For a price, though.”

He smiled faintly at her, “I do not do things out of the goodness of my heart, no.I would like to speak to my brother.You are the best means to reach him... he will come to you, if nothing else.”

“Do you want to kill him?”She asked—an attempt to sound firm, yet there was a note of worry.She cared for Genji, despite all of his misgivings and his past.Maybe it was not his brother that held onto the doctor, but the doctor who couldn’t let go of his brother?

“No,” he said, “those days are past me.I only wish to speak with him.Rather he gives that to me or not, is up to him.But, I need the opportunity to ask...”

Her internal debate warred across her face—the pros and cons that she was most assuredly fielding herself with, as most good medical practitioners did, fluttered by behind her blue gaze quickly—and only the most minute flickers of emotion would appear for the briefest of moments.He waited patiently, watching her, until she answered with a quick nod, “I suppose I’ve no other choice.”

This was not how he had imagined this scenario playing out, and now he was landed with a responsibility that he had never wanted.Sure, there was the intention of talking to her, but it was going to be done under certain stipulations—mainly, one where she did not know his name.But, maybe this was fate’s cruel way of making him repay some of his transgressions.She wasn’t defenseless—he would be naive to assume so—for the training that she had more than likely undergone through the affiliations that would have opened her up to protect and serve others through such a prestigious program would offer her some skill.However, against some of the more higher ranked individuals within the company of cruel masterminds that were, for some reason—he would have to find out the real truth behind—after the two brothers... mainly Genji... would end her in a heartbeat.One cold shot to the head while she was eating a koi-shaped waffle treat, or sitting in front of her vanity in her desolate hotel, and she would not have even the chance to fight back.Or, what would be crueler, is if they had managed to get a hold of her... he knew soft hands like hers wouldn’t fair well against bamboo shoots, and the damage they would leave behind could take away her medical career, if they wouldn’t just kill her when they were done.She was better off with him—she knew this, too—and, like a nervous puppy, she followed him as he set off back towards the main road.

Stay in the public—this was their best opportunity to thwart any tail attempt, or to make an attack less imminent—and he would have to get her to his safe house long before nightfall.The clouds, swirling ominously above, hid the position of the sun in the sky, but his watch gave him the answer in the form of a giant number three followed by fourteen.They had time, but he still maintained his quick pace.They both wove through the crowds like needles through silk—after a few occasional glances behind him, he trusted that she could keep up with him.

Hanzo Shimada’s safe house was nothing more than a one bedroom apartment on the top floor of an older building in the south side of the city.It had it’s charm, he was sure, if one cared about that sort of thing, but it the positioning of the flat that had made it a desirable acquisition.The landowner accepted rent in cash, with very little background verification, and the building was well maintained—only one entrance was provided for any visitors or intruders, and that was through a double-gated, camera monitored, passcode verified front door—the cleanliness of the building made moving through the halls effortless, and, as the building was of an older structure, there were dummy-walls introduced between apartments.The main reason for the faux walls, which shortened the square footage, was to add a cheaper means to soundproofing each space for the residents, but, for Hanzo, it opened an opportunity to create secret compartments within his rental.His space was a corner room—its windows looking out to both the north and west streets—and the range that his view provided was almost unparalleled in a city such as Tokyo.Conveniently, the building was located next to a small park to the west, and a lengthy stretch of straight road, some eight lanes thick, to the north; no fellow skyscrapers, or even squat little shops, hindered his view from the foggy double-paned windows.

It was this building—its face made from red brick, and the short bout of stairs leading up to the front entrance made of concrete—that he led her to.A quick glance upward at he camera lens that peered ominously down at the keypad, its little red blinking light signaling a working recording, and he quickly punched in his number sequence.A buzz, and pop of the barred gate sounded the mechanical lock clicking open, and he quickly yanked it free of its frame, holding it open for her to walk inside first.His head bowed politely as she stepped past him, her blue eyes looking around more curiously than warily; she kept chewing on her lip, her hands remaining in her pockets, and her shoulders were still nervously tight.He allowed the gate to close behind him, ensuring that it locked, and then gestured to the staircase.No elevator had been installed in such an old building—it simply hadn’t the space—thus, it was a trek up some ten flights of thin, wooden stairs that creaked with ancient lethargy.Again, another reason the building was chosen—no elevator, thus any assailant was forced to climb, which would, no matter their range of fitness, tire them out slightly before their arrival at his doorstep, and the creaky wooden stairs would moan in the night, no matter how lightweight an individual stepped.It was as if the building had been constructed to tattle on the movements of its residents.He liked that.

The interior of his apartment was not special.White walls enclosed the space, unremarkable light fixtures fastened to the ceiling held the thick, old yellowed bulbs that popped to life when he flipped the switch, and a clean, but obviously cheap, sofa was pushed up against a wall facing a medium sized flat-screen television, which was mounted to the wall.The only rug that occupied a small amount of space on the hardwood floor was one that he had currently rolled up against the wall, and was the only thing of value out in the open.It was a few centuries old—the only heirloom he had of his family—and delicate, yet it still was durable enough for him to use each morning for meditation.The kitchen, which shared a small space with the living room, was clean, and obviously unused.The door to his only bedroom was open—a clean pallet bed visible, with crisp white linens and fluffy pillows—but nothing more within that space.The bathroom was off to the opposite side which would have provided guests—if he ever had any over—the luxury of entering without going through his sleeping space.He, habitually, slipped off his shoes upon entering—she mimicked him—and he walked over to the television, where he flipped it on, manually.The screen came to life, and displayed the sight of the security camera in the front; he had long since found the wiring within the apartment building’s security measures, allowing him to wire into them, providing him with instant notification if anything went awry.

Hanzo gestured to the couch as he slipped out of his jacket.He held out his hand for hers as she shrugged it off, and he arched his brows.Beneath the crisp white coat, she wore a horribly vivid crocheted sweater; obviously homemade, the fashionably baggy turtleneck had been made with love, its stitches of, what he assumed to be, fine woolen yarn depicted a grumpy looking cat face with a Santa hat.She blinked at him, following his gaze, and looked down at the shirt—she plucked at it, and shrugged, “It was made by a friend... it is special to me...”

“It, ah, is well made,” he answered politely.

“So...” she had situated herself on his couch, and was watching him as he hung their coats in the small closet next to the entrance.

She wanted a conversation—an explanation for what had occurred, and why she found herself here—and possibly even reassurance.He, however, was not the individual to whom answers came effortlessly.Not because he hadn’t thought of them, or that he didn’t have a general idea as to what he wished to do with her, but because he simply disliked this idea of discussion.When options were normally presented to people, he found, they believed that they could seek out alternative means to the suggestions—which really weren’t suggestions—he made.She, he knew, would be one of those people.Argumentative and annoyed, she probably would disagree, and he would find himself in a debate as to whose way was the more correct means to achieving their goals.After all, he was not the only one in the room with a reason for her being here—in the very least—in Tokyo.Granted, she probably would have rather been anywhere else, specifically, at this moment than his safe house.And, to a degree, he had to concur—his safe house was safe no longer.

Maybe they wouldn’t be here within a few hours, but they certainly would be here eventually.He would have to prepare, if they were going to survive the onslaught of individuals who would be sent to drag her back for an interrogation that she was less likely to survive, now that she had thwarted their first ill-fated attempt.They sent that individual with the hopes of failure.They wanted a reason to be more aggressive... possibly, even, some backward moral code had to be met to allow them the use of force which would, quite possibly, kill him in the process of their attempted capture of the good doctor.The direction of morality that they had seemingly set forward on seemed to be disappointing.It wasn’t so much that the path that his family had led them on was much better, per say, but, at least they didn’t have such a sneaky, back-handed way of committing the atrocities that they had.If the Shimada family wanted an individual dead, they would be.Simple, clear, direct; nothing wishy-washy about it, nor nothing that would lead anyone to false hopes or pretenses.And all that man in the alleyway had done is given her hope that, maybe, these people were all as daft as he.Hanzo knew better.

He blatantly ignored her; he wouldn’t have to have a discussion if she didn’t ask a question, and ‘ _so_ ’ was not a question.

Hanzo padded through the kitchen—feet soft on the hardwood flooring—and, from memorization, found the small pressure sensitive cabinetry that he had fitted into the partitions between the walls.A soft press, and a long, thin, piece of drywall popped free.He slid it open, and, hanging on chainlink was his bow.A masterful piece of design—a weapon built for a warrior—made of a combination of pieces from Osage Orange and English Yew, its clear-coat, polished to perfection, shimmered from the buzzing yellow bulbs above.The string, taught, had recently been replaced, and held not even the slightest sign of wear.He turned, carefully setting it out on the counter.From beside it, he pulled out his quiver which held a set of some twenty arrows that he had fletched himself.He slid that drawer closed.A turn towards the island counter on which rested his bow and quiver, and he ran his hands along the underside of the laminated plywood.Once he found the latch, he pressed, and out popped another discreet drawer.From there, he began to pull out spools of wire—razor wire, piano wire, a case of razor blades, and a hammer and case of nails, along with wire cutters.If he was to remove her from the largest city in Japan without a trail, he would have to hinder his hunters to give them a head start.

“What are you going to do?”She asked.

He frowned—a question that he would, actually, have to answer—“Set up safety measures.”

No retort, no argument, just silence.He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she hadn’t moved.Blue eyes patiently watching him as if he were the most interesting creature she had seen in a while—as if he were some animal on display in a zoo—and she was observing his behaviors for some kind of research.There was something oddly unnerving about her stare; it felt as if he were bare before her, and she could see past his dissociation and coldness, into the deepest recesses of his experiences to make note as to what childhood trauma had possibly shaped the Shimada scions into the twisted weeds they had become.He turned away from her, cutting the razor wire into pieces approximately a yard long.

“I understand,” she said, her voice soft, but decided.

“I am so glad that you approve,” he replied curtly—a sarcastic phrase said in the nicest way possible to offer her the understanding that she would not have had a choice in the matter, regardless.

“Do you need any help..?”She was kind.It was apart of her soul, he knew, and it made him wonder how such an individual had gotten wrapped up in the program that she had.He’d heard of the Overwatch administration—everyone had after the news stories broke—and he found it strange that someone such as she had been involved.Of course, there was the off chance that she had not been privy to the darker missions that had been thrust into the limelight when the United Nations wanted to dismantle them from the core out.She was just a doctor—a very good one, if her reputation was to be believed—but, still, just a doctor.She was no assassin.

“No,” he answered shortly, but hesitated, and then explained so she would not think him ill-mannered, “Cutting wire like this is dangerous.”

“What kind is it?”

“Razor wire.”

“For..?”

“The doorways and windows,” when he had a good ten sections of wire, he took the hammer, and with the box of nails, drove a set of two on either side of the front door frame approximately three inches above the ground.He twisted the wire around each nail, drawing the thin cord taught and anchoring it to the other set of nails.It shimmered like a thin strand of web in the yellow light—almost impossible to see with the apartment fully lit, it would be invisible in the night—and he walked towards the windows to repeat the same, “Remember, do not drag your feet through the doorways tonight.”

“I will not forget,” she answered, watching him as he moved around the apartment, “What do you suppose will happen after..?”

“We will leave.This place is no longer safe,” he glanced around the apartment, briefly—he had been here a solid year, coming and going in peace—and felt somewhat disheartened that he would have to do the same somewhere else again.The constant shuffle of movement and disappearing that had been his life since he was disavowed some ten years ago... “We will go to Nikko, for now.I can call upon a favor there.We will have sanctuary there while we decide our next steps.”

“... our..?” She sounded puzzled, but not combative.

“ _Our_ ,” he affirmed, “I wish to see my brother, remember.In exchange for a guard, I would hope that you will let me speak with him.If that means that I must show you I am not the man who cut him down before, then so be it.Take time to decide.”

Hanzo knew she was intelligent enough to know that she hadn’t a lot of time to weigh his intentions.He also knew that she understood that he was her best chance—her way into the country had been messy, and she wasn’t naive enough to have seen that any other way, either.A pseudo nomenclature purchased from a Parisian back-alley turn-coat, more-than-likely, had gained her a passport stating she was from Spain, yet her identity held a full French name, and she, a Swiss citizen, had a thick German accent.Even the man who must have stamped that xerox-quality passport booklet must have known it to be fake... which, on a side note, made him frown for the standards of the travel authorities in his, and other, countries.No wonder it was so easy to slip between borders with ill intents hidden beneath faux smiles and sweet demeanors.Granted, she meant no ill will, but, she could have also led others to Japan.So, while he knew they had to worry about the dregs of what had once been his crime-led empire, he didn’t know what other shadows lurched after her from the other parts of the globe.

He knew enough about her to know that she would have been an asset to any who wanted her.She had engineered nanotechnology that could heal someone in a fraction of a second—or, at least, something like that—which had only been the thought of science fiction until her establishment in the Overwatch program.It was through these means, this technology, that the biotic suit had been constructed to maintain the thin sliver of life Genji had clung to.His brother, whom had told him that he had forgiven him for the act that Hanzo had done, but which Hanzo believed very little.There was no begging for forgiveness, no offered means of proving his change... how could he be so easily forgiven if there had been no demanded reparation? But, all this was second only to the now—she surely had shadows trailing after her that wanted her knowledge for more creations such as his brother—and, he was certain, not any had good intentions behind their Cheshire grins.

Tonight, he knew, his former employees would come.Tomorrow, however, he didn’t know.The goal was to be gone, however, before then.At the very least, he knew, with him, she would have better means of fake documents.

“Where is Nikko?” She asked as he tightened the last bit of razor wire to the third, and final, windowsill. 

He backtracked to the counter where he began to count out razor blades—he would fasten these just under the base of the windows—for when they leverage themselves through the broken frame, their hands would press down on the blade and slice palms open wide.A very painful injury, and one that made fighting nonsensical and impossible.A good injury for an assailant to have.

“About an hour and a half away,” he walked back to the window next to the couch, and began to press the blades into place, “in the mountains.It is an old temple town.”

“Oh,” he felt her eyes follow him, watching his hands and the security they put firmly into place, “I bet it is lovely.”

He paused, and glanced at her, “It is, but... you are taking all this rather well.”

She shrugged, “Why not?I have always wanted to see the mountains here.I am fond of mountains.”

He returned to his work, “Not a lot of snow, just trees and springs.It is quiet, and difficult to reach.We will take the railway.”

“Oh, a train?” She smiled; he could hear the difference in her tone, though it was minor, “We have to take a train into the mountains back home.They are too steep for a car...”

“The Swiss Alps are not like these mountains,” he turned, letting himself sit on the floor beneath the window, all precautions set, his legs stretching out over the hardwood floor, “but we will take a train.We can pay for our seats in yen, and the stations are not as monitored as other means of transport.We need to get there without anyone following us.”

“And when we get there..?” She watched him turn the hammer over and over in his hands; it was the only sign of the beginnings of his anxiety which would accumulate as he waited for their attackers this evening.

“There is a monk that owes me a favor,” he arched his brow up at her, “and he will get us out of Japan without notice.But, I need to know where we need to go.”

She blinked—it was the first time that he had caught her slightly off guard—“I don’t know.”

“Where would you feel safe?”He asked, “Is there any place where you could be for longer than a week?”

“Yes,” she frowned, “I think so.”

“Where?”

“Sweden,” she bit her lip, “they get together for the holidays.”

“Where in Sweden?”

“Gothenburg,” she said, “With the Lindholms.”

He didn’t know who the ‘Lindholms’ were, but if she trusted them, so would he, “It is decided, then,” he set the hammer down on the ground beside his leg, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, “but, for now, we wait.”


	2. Jesse.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)

**JESSE**.

_The problem with old western cowboys on their silver steeds, guns blazing,_

_Lasso swinging above their heads like halos,_

_Is that they are as lonely as the tumbleweed—floating, rolling, leaving..._

_Always abandoning Miss Kitty alone in her saloon._

There were quite a few things that he loved about Texas—the heat, the arid climate, the people, the women in their short daisy-dukes and firecracker personalities—but, the main one was that it never changed.No matter the year, he felt at home in the sandy humidity with his old boots and spurs, his Stetson shading his hazel eyes from the angry sun; mechanical arm or normal, gun on his hip or tucked safely away, bullets strapped across his chest or stowed away in an ammunition box, this was the only place where he could truly fade away into the crowd.Everyone in this state owned a gun, everyone in this state wore boots, and everyone in this state had a hat—the larger, the better.No matter anyone’s walk in life—rather they were born on easy street, or if they came to in the local trailer park—they all looked the same covered in the dust whipped up out of the desert.And, he loved it.From the friendly smiles and common curtesy—which was so often forgotten in big cities on the east coast—to the sweet smell of American apple pie and Folger’s coffee in the little diners that still speckled the main roads.Forever, Texas would be trapped in a decade long lost to the majority of the world, and, for now, it would be his home... again.

“Hey-ya, darlin’.Welcome to Fisher’s.What’cha want, sugar?”The waitress set down a clear plastic glass of water; ice cubes _tinked_ together, a wedge of fresh cut lemon bobbing along the surface of the liquid, “You want the breakfast menu or do you want the lunch one?”

“Ah, breakfast,” he answered, a grin up at the older woman—her nametag read ‘Betsy’—and he tipped his hat at her, “if you wouldn’t mind, hun.Also, it’d be mighty fine to get a mug of y’all’s best coffee.”

“Of course, sugar,” she answered, a small wink at the devilish traveler in the plastic booth of the diner, “it’ll be right up.And I’ll bring you that breakfast menu.”

“Ah, Betsy,” Jesse said, stretching out his legs under the table and crossing his boots at his ankles, “you’re the woman of my dreams.”

She rolled her eyes beneath too heavily mascaraed eyes, and offered him a smile with red lips.She walked back over to the kitchen with a bit more sway in her hips, even though she had waved him off with a jangle of her bracelets on her wrist.

Betsy, he mused, was what was missing in the news and the movies.She was the example of the normal American.A hardworking woman who scrounged together her life by counting tips, but still managed to have a good demeanor, even if she couldn’t afford real gold jewelry.She was dripping in costume pieces—a string of pearls which didn’t even attempt to appear real, what with the edge of plastic revealing white type of mold they had been pressed into—from necklaces to earrings, a series of faux gold bangles littered each of her wrists, and her lips were a deep rouge that didn’t compliment the poorly dyed red curls that framed her face.She had begun to show her age, too.She still dressed like she was the lithe little twenty year old, who, if it were a decade ago, would have jumped at the chance to take a ride on his motorcycle out front.However, she no longer was that pretty young thing that would get all the bikers riled up, and he was sure that she suffered when she looked at herself in the mirror each morning for it.He had to give her credit, though.She sure was nice for someone who was trying too hard to appear more youthful than her fifty-some years was robbing her of.

Jesse took a swig of water from the plastic cup, and drummed his fingers along the linoleum lined table, occasionally glancing out the large pane of glass as a car or truck rumbled past the small eatery, cruising down the highway.The diner, itself, was a popular little spot—it was fairly full, even though he was the only one in a booth—with travelers or locals lined along the breakfast bar, chattering merrily with the cooks on the other side as they fried food on the flattop grills.The smells of bacon wafted through the air, along with the smells of syrup and sugar, and, finally, ending with the deep note of black tin-can coffee.To him, this was luxury.After all, this was, in his childhood.

Only once a month or so, his parents would take him into town to eat at the local diner—and it usually coincided with Sunday Mass—where he would get a five stack of pancakes, load them down with margarine and maple syrup.Those were the good days—the days were chores were his only responsibilities, and schoolwork, but the latter didn’t matter so much because he knew he was destined to take up the same mantle as his father—when he spent his summers horseback riding and herding cattle for his family’s farm, and the fall swimming in the creek with his schoolyard friends.Now, however, his responsibilities were a bit more than keeping up with the goats and the chickens, the cows and the horses, and making sure the barn cats were well nourished outside of the mice they hunted.No, now he had a bounty on his head from the government—he had taken a few wrong turns in his life, sure—and he was attempting to outrun leftover ghosts from his time spent in Blackwatch attempting to amend the sins of his troubled young adulthood.Not only did he have to figure out from where he was going to scrounge up enough bills to rub together, he had to make sure he had enough access to technology to stay just one step ahead of whatever the hell may be tailing him.Mind, he didn’t have any indication as to rather or not anything or anyone was after him, per-say, but, in case there was, he would rather be ahead.Needless to say, it at least kept him on the move enough to not raise suspicions of the local sheriff offices.

Fucking cops.

Jesse, the best shot in the west, used the circuses and fairs on the outskirts of little towns to pay for his few necessities.A group would roll into a rural county, buried deep in the countryside, and he would follow shortly after, like a tumbleweed, and offer, for a few dollars and hour plus tips, to put on a show.He would be given a horse and asked to either ride and shoot or ride and lasso—sometimes both, sometimes without the horse—and he would show off the skills that had garnered him both his bounty and his tenure ‘saving the country’... What a joke all that turned out to be.And, he snorted to himself, here he had been thinking that a threat some agent brought in the night—join or rot in jail—could lead to _redemption_.

Fucking cops.

 _No_ , he scowled out the window, _fuck Reyes_.

Bad decisions, or poor luck, or both... whatever it had been, he had been landed with this shithole of a life, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t make the best of it.At least, he thought, it was _freeing_.He didn’t have a house to worry about, he wasn’t anchored to a family, he didn’t have some little bouncing brat that would cling to his leg, nor did he have a woman to come home to, tapping her foot with disappointment at the fact he smelled like bourbon, cigars, and mistakes.He didn’t _want_ any of that.Never had, never would.He didn’t _deserve_ any of that.He wasn’t a good enough of a person for any of that.

“Here ya go, hun,” Betsy said, tossing the breakfast menu down on the table in front of him, and, with a jangle, poured him a cup of burnt coffee from the glass pot, “I’ll be back in a sec.Give ya some time to have a look over that.Bo can make some hella good eggs, if you’re lookin’ for some recommendations.”

“You’re such a darlin’, Betsy,” he grinned up at her, “tell me why you’re such an angel, sugar.”

She rolled her eyes at him again, but grinned still the same, and strutted off to help her other guests.

The plastic menu was as gaudy as they ever were in establishments like this—a computer generated list with stock images of the dishes they described, laminated and hole punched into a binder—and he flipped through it.Nuance flooded back to him.It was as if he could smell his father’s tobacco, his mother’s cheap perfume, and he could almost hear them bickering across from him, arguing over the difficulties of adulthood—things he never understood that young.Later, of course, he knew what it was... bills, mainly, debt collectors, secondly... his father’s unfaithful tendencies, his mother’s alcoholism, and, eventually, his father’s lung cancer.Certainly, the old man got it from his smoking.A habit that the man had picked up quickly in his youth and had never let go; he smoked like a chimney, cigarette after cigarette dangling from his dry lips in his sunburnt farmer’s face.A destiny, Jesse knew, that was probably going to catch up to him one day.After all, like father like son, and Jesse had picked up cigars in his youth, much to his mother’s dismay, shortly after they finished covering his father with dirt.The more intelligent of individuals would drop the habit, but Jesse, ever the rebel, somehow felt he was given cancer the metaphorical finger by always chewing on a cigar and filling his lungs with smoke and his liver with booze.

A few flips of the pages later, and he had decided what he wanted.What better time, he thought, to get pancakes than when he was thinking of his shit childhood?Thus, when Betsy rolled her hips over to him in her tight pencil skirt and white blouse—both of which were well worn and, he knew, likely to have been purchased at the local goodwill—he drummed his finger on his choice, “Gimme a stack of ten—plenty of syrup—and an order of bacon, sausage links, and...” he grinned, “Since Bo is the egg-making god, some o’those in whatever way he makes best.”

Betsy jotted down his order in a small notepad, “Got’cha, hun.”

“Oh,” he added, “make sure you bring me plenty of butter and syrup.I’d like to develop diabetes today.”

Betsy flashed a smile—she had a smear of red lipstick on her teeth—and nodded, “Diabetes, comin’ right up.”

With his order placed, he went back to being pensive, staring out the window and sipping his cheap coffee which, to him, now tasted like some of the expensive expresso that he would get in the finer cafes in Italy.A large semi flew by the window, rattling the silverware in the tiny building, and somewhere in the distance, he heard a car door slam shut.He wasn’t worried about who might have walked in or out of the diner—he was so far out of anywhere that would recognize his face, he felt like a needle well lost in a haystack.He reached out, grabbing a packet of sugar to add to the coffee, and a voice out of the past screeched across his eardrums like nails on a chalkboard—

“Jesse fucking McCree.Just the jackass I needed to find.”

He jerked around and looked up at the figure who was standing over his table, arms crossed over her chest.

“Ashe,” he scowled, “What the _fuck_ d’you want?”

She—evil personified—looked almost the same as he had last seen her with her stupid gang.She was a thin thing—a good enough figure, if you were into what he would call ‘skinny chicks’—with a small bust, waist, and hips, which were cloaked, as usual, in her button-up oxford.She wore her black suede pants, tall thigh-high boots, and a long, black, duster vest.A red tie was elegantly situated around her neck, fastened to her shirt with a strip of real gold.Beneath her black Stetson, her platinum white hair was as straight as a board, coming to a sharp edge just beneath her jawline.Angry violet eyes glared at him from a frame of dark lashes, and down a sharp, elegant nose.Realistically, she would have been beautiful if she weren’t such a bitch.

Ashe slipped into the booth across from him, “Oh, I just wanted to swing by and say hi.”

He rolled his eyes, “Whatever.I don’t have time for your petty shit.”

Ashe waved her hand up in the air, summoning Betsy, “You will, McCree,” she muttered just before the waitress walked over, “Can you be a dear, and grab me a cup of coffee, please?”

“Anything else, hun?” Betsy asked.

“No,” Ashe said, looking up at her, smiling graciously, “but, thank you.Your hospitality skills are beyond recognition.Hopefully you don’t get shit for tips today.”

Betsy blinked, and her smile vanished.A glance at Jesse, and she turned and walked away.

“Why’ya gotta be such a raging cunt, Ashe,” he sighed, “Does it make your dick hard fucking with people?”

“ _What_?Were you hoping to get into granny’s panties after you eat your corn-syrupy fuck-meal?”Ashe blinked at him, propping her head up on—what the most unfortunate of men would assume to be—a delicate hand, “You know that cavern is about as dry as the Sahara.You’d definitely need some lube for that.”

“Jesus, Liz,” he scowled, poking his coffee cup with his finger, “why’ya gotta be so goddamned _vile_?”

She shrugged, “Why’ya gotta be such a goddamned prick?Tell me that one, Jesse, and I’ll tell you why I’m such a raging bitch.”

“Fuck your mind games,” he said, “and tell me what the fuck you want.”

“Uh,” Betsy interrupted and he offered her an apologetic smile—he hadn’t heard her approach—but, it wasn’t returned now, “here...” She dropped the cup in front of Ashe, and filled it with the same cheap coffee that was in Jesse’s cup.

“Thank’ya, doll,” Ashe said, offering her an obviously fake smile with a scrunched nose to accompany it, “You’re the best, Betsy.Run ‘long, now... We are having a _private_ conversation.”

Betsy didn’t need to be told twice, and she quickly left.No friendly winks or grins for Jesse.

He sucked in his breath, “You going to ever fucking talk to me, Ashe, or are you just gonna keep prattling on tryin’ to rub me the wrong way?”

“I’ve a proposition for you,” Elizabeth Ashe said, looking blankly at the coffee before taking a sip.

“I don’t want any part of your fucking propositions,” he scowled—of course that was why she was here, and his assumption that it was for another reason was, looking back, stupid.What did he want to even hear from her, anyway?An apology?For what?Being herself?—that was the reason nothing had ever come of anything between them... she was _so fake_.Kind to him when she wanted him to like her—arrogant, selfish, and rude any other time.

“If you’d shut up and listen, you may change your mind on this one,” she arched her perfect brows and offered him a cocky smirk of her rouge lips, “because it has to do with that do-good shit you were into a while back.”

He rolled his eyes, “That shit was disbanded, and for a fucking good reason.Hypocrites, the lot o’them.”He thought vaguely about the missed message from Winston sitting on his laptop in the satchel on his motorcycle.

“Whatever,” she shrugged, “but, we got asked to acquire some fucking package.”

“So?Tell me why that would make me give a shit,” he took a drink of his coffee.

She looked up at him through black lashes, eyes twinkling devilishly, “I got nothing on the guy who issued it.He’s going by some alias.But, there was a name that came up in the job description that I thought you’d wanna hear.”

“Here you go, hun,” Betsy set down his stack of pancakes in front of him, his side of bacon and sausage next, followed by his eggs, and a large pot of warm maple syrup; she glanced at Ashe, “Are you still okay, sugar?”

“I’m fine, sweet’ums,” Ashe said blankly, and Betsy quickly took her leave.

“Tell me the fucking name, then,” he said, pouring the syrup over his ten stack, “quit stallin’. It’s almost as if you just showed up to stare at my face.”

“Such a hideous face deserves to be in a freak show,” Ashe quipped quickly, reaching out and stealing one of his strips of bacon.

He began to eat the pancakes—he’d be damned if she would take from him his childhood nostalgia today—and he stared at her, unamused.

A series of crunches later, and she continued, licking the bacon grease off her fingers, “There’s a chance some old friend of yours would show up.Thought you’d want the chance to tell him how you felt, or some shit.Some pretentious prick that goes by Reaper, or _the_ Reaper, or whatever—either way, I know what may be his real name... Reyes.Even that makes him sound like a dick.”

“Gabriel Reyes?” Jesse had to admit he was intrigued, “What the fuck is he doin’?He’s supposed to be dead, last I heard.”

“Shit doesn’t stay dead long nowadays,” Ashe shrugged, taking another swig of coffee, “Either way, he’s interested in what I’m supposed to retrieve.”

“Who issued the job again?” He asked—the syrup was making his mouth dry and sticky, and he felt the sugar beginning to coat the surface of his tongue.Was it always this uncomfortable to eat pancakes when he was a child?—he didn’t remember the fuzzy tongue feeling and the nauseatingly sweet aftertaste.

“Some pseudonym,” she said, “a code.Literally O-W-seven-six.”

He sat back in the booth, chewing on a sausage link, “That’s sloppy.”

“You know who it is?” She asked, picking up a fork and taking a bite of his pancakes.

“I think so, yeah,” he answered, “but the guy I think it is wouldn’t have done it that simply.I think it may be a trap, Liz.”

“Of course it’s a trap,” she grinned, “prolly laid out by that Reyes jackass.”

“Why are you going to do it anyway?”He asked, picking up a strip of bacon next.

“‘Cause it’s a real job, Jesse,” she said, brows arching, “and I know what they’re after.It’s a _real_ thing.Trap or no for chess pieces above my pay grade, the bait is a _real_ thing and would sell for a _real_ pretty penny.”

“What’s the thing?”He asked.

“A person.”

“Who?”

She smiled devilishly again, eyes twinkling with the secrets she would always hold above his head, just out of arm’s reach, “Not gonna tell unless you show up.”

“Where?”

“Here,” she slid a piece of paper across the table from one of her pockets.

Simple notebook paper, her high-bred penmanship danced across the lines in a beautiful waltz of English lettering that spelled out an address in London, England.He looked up at her from the paper, refusing to touch it, “How the fuck am I supposed to get to London?”

“Not my problem, cowboy,” she replied, “but if you want in, you better be there.”

“When?”

“Next Monday, at three in the morning,” she answered, taking another bite of pancake, “These are fucking _delicious_.”

He sighed, and his appetite was gone, “You’re a piece of work, y’know?You haven’t changed.All these years, and you’re still the same fucking bitch you always were.”

“You ever think,” she said, her voice lowering, her eyes narrowing, and her sudden lurch of anger rose, “I’m a bitch ‘cause you led me on for _years_?”

“I didn’t lead you on,” he argued, “I told you”—

“Oh, that I wasn’t your type ‘cause— _what_?—my parents had money?”She glared, “Just ‘cause my parents had money didn’t mean I did.Just ‘cause I happened to be born on _that_ side of the tracks didn’t make me less of a person.”

“You still _don’t_ get what it’s like”—

“ _NO_ ,” she snapped, “ _You_ of all people do _not_ get to _lecture me_ about what it is like for the little poor people. _You_ , who so actively and pretentiously accuse me of being a worse person than you because I was born _rich_ , have no _right_ to belittle me.You have _no idea_ what kind of childhood I had.Regardless of the setting, a bad childhood is a fucked childhood.”

He had never seen her so serious.Her accent had fallen away, and she glared across the table at him, her eyes as cold as ice.He frowned, “I am sorry, Ashe, if I ever...”

“Past is the past,” she shrugged, finally looking away, “and I don’t care if you still get your rocks off to trailer park trash.But, I’ll tell you one thing, McCree, if you show up to this address”—her finger drummed on the paper—“you’re _my employee_ and I _will fucking shoot you_ if you talk to me like that when you’re working on _my time_.”

He knew she was serious.If there ever was one thing that Elizabeth Ashe was honest about, it was about her work, “Noted.”

She stood, her boots clicking on the linoleum floor, and she adjusted her hat.She pulled a few bills from the pocked of her black leather duster vest, and tossed them onto the table—rather on purpose or not, they fell into the syrup of the left over pancakes, and he knew Betsy would have to go through the trouble of washing them before putting them in the register—and nonchalantly looked down at her former associate, “Show up.Kill this Reyes ass.You’ll get to end your stupid feud—or whatever it is—from your _hero_ days, and you’ll walk away with ten million.That’s your cut.Ten.No more, no less.”

“Unmarked?”

“Obviously,” she sighed, looking out the window, “or you can stay here and keep running.If my opinion matters at all anymore, I think you ought to do somethin’.World’s changing, again, Jesse.The modern Bonnie and Clyde’s are ‘bout to die to history, as much as the originals, and we need to figure out our place again.”

“Go back home,” he said, “you have enough money.”

She glanced down at him, and, for the first time he saw sympathy in her eyes, “How sad and lonely it must be to live your life the way you do, and think so little of others to assume that every hurt they experienced can be washed away with a couple million Benjamin’s.”

For once, Jesse McCree felt like someone had laid bare his soul, and he didn’t like the look of it, “... That was uncalled for, and I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”

“No matter,” she turned, leaving him, “Be in London.You’ll want to be apart of this.It’s bigger than it seems, McCree...” she pulled open the door, and glanced back at him, “What was it they said?—oh! _The world needs more heroes_ ”—she let it slam as she left.

Jesse McCree looked down at what was supposed to be his a breakfast to honor his childhood.The pancakes were half-destroyed, bills clinging to the sticky syrup.Bacon destroyed and crumbled, and the remainder of the sausage links rested in a pool of congealing grease—the eggs, untouched, had begun to harden.His stomach turned, and, with the drop of his own bills on the table, Jesse McCree left behind the nostalgia that he had believed he longed for, but found no longer to his taste.


	3. Angela.

**ANGELA.**

_Hold me and tell me you love me—caress my hair and whisper sweet nothings,_

_The softest sounds of your voice, barely audible in my ear,_

_I can feel your gasp, I can feel your grip tighten,_

_If I allow you inside my soul, will you see the beauty that resides, and wish to stay?_

They came that evening, just like he had thought they would, and regardless of the mental preparation that she had forced herself through, when the first _bang_ jostled her from a restless sleep, she gasped.He was already awake—she remembered wondering, vaguely, if he had ever actually fallen asleep—squatting in front of the couch she was outstretched over.He had his bow in his hands, his quiver on his back, and careful fingers had already placed one arrow at the ready.Brown eyes glanced over at her, a pleading look for her to remain silent and still.She honored his silent request, and bit the inside of her cheek.

The door was opened first; a jostle of the handle, some lurch on the frame with a crowbar, and then a swift _crunch_ of the wood from a battering ram, and the heavy door swung open.He was much quicker than she had imagined—the arrow flew before the first man could even cross into the apartment—and struck the individual in the face, shattering the visor in what she could only assume would be black market police riot gear.He fell with a sickening _thud_ , like a bag of flour, neglect of life and reaction—the man behind him immediately began blindly firing his pistol into the room, the sounds of the bullets leaving the chamber squelched to nothing more than soft _tings_ by the silencer that had been screwed onto the end of the barrel.Hanzo grabbed her, pulling her off the couch behind him, and shoving her around the side, positioning her between the arm of the sofa and the wall.Another silent arrow struck that man right below his jaw, burrowing into his neck.She watched as blood began oozing out from around the shaft, staining the white fletching red, and pouring down his front.The pistol fell, followed shortly by him, and when he collapsed, he knocked the gun towards their corner.The skittering metal spinning as it came to a stop within arms reach of her.

The third man was the one who fell first victim to the razor wire—the metal cutting effortlessly through his thin leather boots and nicking his Achilles tendon—and when he had collapsed, a swift arrow found its way into the top of his head.She reached around Hanzo, grabbing the pistol, and, immediately, landed a shot out the window to her right—the man who had been attempting to line up his own shot on the eldest Shimada son fell through the window, unmoving.

Angela had always been a servant of the people.Ever since she had been a child—a little blonde girl playing at dolls on the living room floor of her home in Switzerland—she had wished to be a doctor.She wanted to _help_ those that may not have had the ability to find the solace they needed on their own.And, while many suffered from ailments all throughout their life—poverty, depression, addiction, abuses and abusers—illnesses and diseases were some of the things that could be _cured_.A patient may have an addiction to heroin, but if they also had lupus, she could offer them at least one means of relieving the pain that may have driven them to seek out drugs in the first place.She was a person who fought for life and the betterment of that life—she did not appreciate the violence that this world so effortlessly fell into, and relied upon, like a crutch—and, when she had been offered the position in the infamous Overwatch organization, she had believed, truly, that was where she would find herself.Situated as the lead in their medical department, she believed that her endless budget would be put to use finding out how to help the world survive, not how to create super-soldiers, or craft bio-engineered suits that would allot for the destruction of towns and cities.

To begin, her commander Jack Morrison had instructed, was the insurance that she could shoot straight, at the very least.If she were to go into the field to be their protector—their guardian—she would, at the very least, have to be able to hold off assailants in case she got cornered away from her group.Thus, for hours at a time over the course of several weeks, Jack had practiced with her in the firing range.She had told him she would never kill unless she had to, and he always told her that her job was not to kill at all, and, if they did their job right, she would never be put into that position.

The blood from the man she had shot inched towards her over the smooth hardwood paneling.In the darkness, it looked as black as ink, save where the reflection of the heavy, full moon glared at her, judging her soul and her actions, from the maroon depths.It looked sticky, and there was a slight wisp of steam that rose from the pool.She had barely noticed the other four that Hanzo had put down—each with a single arrow—until he was pulling at her arm to get her to rise to her feet.What team they had sent to extract her and, possibly, him, had failed.The room glowed to life when he flicked on the television to see the front entrance camera, “Put on your shoes.We need to leave.We haven’t much time.”

Thus, she found herself sitting next to him on the train, swaying their way to the small town he had mentioned he had a contact in... what was that town again?Nikko?She felt dirty and sick, looking out of the foggy window at the passing scenery; what had this all become?Why had she come to this country again?—she should have gone straight back to Sweden.This detour was the mistake that her gut had told her it was going to be.And, on top of that, she, here, without her suit or her equipment made her a sitting target.A brief tenure in Japan—one that was only meant to last a week at most—had now turned into her own adventure; fueled by stupidity and angst, she, who had felt alone in the world since the dismantling of the Overwatch program, stupidly booked a redeye out of Jerusalem to Tokyo in hopes of what..?Just happening to run into him, or having him find her?—Genji was a shadow before his new life, and now that he had the technology she had crafted and the upgrades that Overwatch had commissioned, he was a whisper in the night... he, of all people, would not be in Japan, nor would he be easily found if he was otherwise preoccupied.

Angela wanted a familiar face—even if it was hidden behind a mask—and a familiar voice.She wanted to feel _safe_ and loved, admired and appreciated, told that she _mattered_.Something that had fallen short for what felt to be the past lifetime.Genji, no matter the situation or the infrequency of their correspondence or the short times that they could see one another, always made her feel all of those things, and more.She felt eyes on her, and when she glanced around, there was a little old woman staring from the bench across from theirs.She must have sat down at the last stop, and Angela hadn’t noticed.She offered an apologetic smile at the woman, who offered her a kind grin back.

“You...” the woman started, gesturing towards Hanzo, whose head was leaning back against his seat with his eyes firmly closed, asleep.

Angela suddenly realized how very strange they must have appeared—she, hair tussled in days old clothing, next to a rather put together individual—and she smiled, “We know one another, yes.”A brief hesitation, and she leaned her head against Hanzo’s shoulder.With the destruction of physical boundaries came the illusion that they were more than strangers made acquaintances out of convenience.

The woman smiled, adjusting the bag of groceries that she had with her, “Very—ah—nice.Where do you go..?”Broken English with a thick accent was so becoming; an attempted kindness of conversation towards an individual who, the woman must have known, felt so very out of place.

“Nikko,” she responded, looping her arm around his out of comfort, “... he has family there.”

“Oh,” she smiled, “to meet?First?Yes?”

Why ruin the formation of a story?Even if it was for the solace of the woman, “Yes...”

The woman grinned wider, chuckling, “Good luck, yes?”Brown eyes glanced up at Hanzo, “He looks very much mother’s son.”

A grin tugged at the corners of her lips, and she glanced up at a would-be sleeping disowned Shimada Scion, “He is.I will need all of the luck, thank you.”

The conversation dwindled after that—the elder lady left the train on the following stop—but she kept her head leaning against his shoulder.He was far more comfortable than the rattling of a cold plexiglass window, whose condensation long since began to draw out the most nauseating of smells in the coach car.And, he didn’t seem to object—rather he was awake or not, she didn’t know—to her touch, but rather simply remain the stoic statue that he was whilst he closed his eyes for the long train ride into the mountains.The scenery of the city gave way to the thick trees and colder weather of the increasingly steep incline and higher elevation.Misty streets began to look more frozen, and, eventually, the fog turned into swirling ice crystals.Plump snowflakes began to fall, and the sky became darker with swirling angry clouds, full of snow.She watched through the fog as the landscapes rolled by—humanity thinning as they continued their trek out of the city—dotted with the occasional house and road, the occasional car sputtering along what was a small little lane to a mysterious destination she would never know.

He was warm; as the temperature dropped, the heating system within the public train kicked on, but it didn’t change much.The rattling of the windows and doors only seemed to make it easier for the newfound heat to escape.Their fellow passengers tightened scarves around their faces, nestled down into their thick coats, and pulled gloves onto their bare hands.She gripped his arm tighter, leaning into him, her free arm pulling her coat closer around her body.

“We are the next stop,” he said, and when she looked up, his eyes were still closed, “do not get too comfortable.”

“It is cold,” Angela frowned.

“It is the mountains,” he answered, “of course it’s cold.Aren’t you used to this?”

“Just because I was born in Switzerland doesn’t mean that I am used to this,” she said, “Besides, I haven’t been home in years.”

“Also,” he opened one eye to look down at her, “I was never a mother’s boy.That was my brother.”

She couldn’t help but smirk, “Apparently, you look it.”

Angela had always had a decent amount of reliable intuition when it came to people.Rather that was something she had learned or if it was something she was born with—that was a debate for another time.Her judgement, however, had guided her along the path that was her life—the decisions as to whom with which to work, what was the best route to take, what individuals it was worth it to pursue—and, when she looked at Hanzo, she realized that she didn’t see the darkness that he, with every action and insinuation, claimed to lie within.She did see the damage; that was evident from every action he made.But, damage does not always equate to tenebrosity.Instead, she believed, it honed him—it strengthened his resolve and his assurances—and created an individual of quick action and even quicker wit... someone, who, she believed, had learned his lessons in his past and had resolved to be a better person.Why, she wished to know—was it solely because of Genji?—and, she hoped, in the very least, she would find out.

He was a rare creature, that was certain.But, so was his younger sibling.Maybe, she wondered, if that happened to be an inherited feature of their family—the ability to be simply so interesting with little to no actual indication of the complexity of their lives—or, if she was pushing what she wanted for Genji onto his brother, someone of flesh instead of metal.She did not know Genji before the incident—she hadn’t ever seen him whole, but only a broken version of what he had been—but, she remembered the first time she had looked into his eyes and saw the pain that lingered there.Not from injuries, but from betrayal and the deep depths that could only be caused by the realization that he was now, truly alone.She related to him, and he to her, and, she saw the beauty of his soul flourish in her care.When he had left to go find himself from what he had become, she felt herself falling back into the depths once again.

She never was scared of being alone—she wasn’t dependent upon another individual for her own self-assurance—but, she did not like it.Sure, it gave her time to think, to study, to create and devise, but, at her core, she always felt like she was the one forgotten.A porcelain doll purchased because of its beauty, to be placed high upon a shelf only to be admired, to never know the feeling of an embrace.She longed for the touch of another person—another soul—the warmth of care that could only be felt when there was a genuine connection, be that friendship or more, and the ability to have them within arms reach.She had thought, sure, for the briefest of times, that Genji would be that one, until she realized that through her reconstruction, she had added another layer of complexity that he would hide behind in his continued confusion as to who he was and what he could give to another.

When she looked up at him, did she really see his younger brother?Hanzo had a strong jaw, high cheekbones, thick lashes and dark brows—his nose was straight as an arrow, and his hair had a few streaks of silver by his temple.There were similarities between he and Genji—or, rather, Genji as he had been since she had seen photographs of him from his youth over the years—that were most certainly attributes of the Shimada family, but where there was vibrancy in Genji’s eyes, and an air of nonchalance, there was only certainty in Hanzo’s.Genji, still, moved as if he had no care—Hanzo was strict and straight as iron.And, like Genji had been, Hanzo was handsome—that was rather undeniable—in the same way that ice was beautiful... cold, frozen grace, which was misleadingly innocent, until it collapsed beneath even the most sure-footed, engulfing them into a glacial grave.She wondered, vaguely, if there had ever been someone to attempt to melt his heart before.

They had left the train station in a small cab, heading towards a destination she did not truly understand for Hanzo had given directions to the driver in Japanese.But, again, she found herself leaning against a rattling cold window, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.She wanted to be at their destination in hopes that she would, for the first time in some forty-eight hours, be allowed to sleep for at least a solid six.Thankfully, the cab ride was only about ten minutes, and when they pulled up to the ancient temple, she felt sleepiness take a quick backseat to intrigue.

Sharp peaked, steep sloping roofs were held up by thick columns, the ancient filigree that had been carved into the structures on the campus of a bygone architecture had been pressed with, what she had imagined, was real gold leaf.The snow that covered the courtyard was unbroken due to the early morning, but judging by the signs and roped walkways, this was a location highly desirable by tourists, and the pristine blanket would soon be marred with footprints.Hanzo lead her through the main gate and then abruptly to the left, avoiding the main plaza, “This way... we need to go around to the back.”

“What is this place..?”She followed diligently, though her eyes kept washing over the buildings.

“ _Tōshō-gū,_ ” he answered, “a Shinto temple built...” he paused, “I believe around the fifteenth century.But, we are looking for a very specific building...”

“What building?Why?”

He made another turn, weaving them through the maze of buildings and shrines; she occasionally would glimpse snippets of information about the temple from the placards that were stationed outside each, “Every location needs a website these days, and only one of the monks knows how to code.”

“He would be your contact?”

“Yes,” Hanzo said, “... unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”—she was cut off by a loud yell coming from the entrance of the building they had just turned towards.

“AH,” a plump man in navy robes had his arms open wide, a huge grin on his face beneath his straw Kasa, “MY FAVORITE BROTHER.”

“Unfortunately,” Hanzo muttered to her, cutting her a look out of the corner of his eye, “Hello, Wu.”

“Ah, and who is this,” the man asked; clear shaven face, round and jolly, he looked as if he had never known a day of sadness in his life, “do not tell me that you have gotten the lovely lady into a predicament that requires services not on my skill level?Are you here to leave her on my doorstep for some nine months?”

Hanzo glared, “No, fool.”

“I am Doctor Angela Ziegler,” she said, extending her hand to the man, who immediately took it, and, instead of shaking it as she had anticipated, plucked a kiss on her fingers.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he grinned, straight, white teeth sparkling in the cold grey sunlight almost as much as the snow, “and what is it that I can do for you and this bad dog you’ve brought to me?”

“Are you from here...?”She asked, raising an eyebrow—his English was flawless, and no sign of an accent, yet, she would imagine there would have to have been some kind of regulation in regards to becoming what the European world would label a ‘monk’ for the Shinto religion of Japan.

“Ah, no,” Wu grinned, “I am from America.Well, I was born in China.Then my parents dragged me to _Tennessee_ , of all places.Then, I got into a lot of... er— _trouble_.”

She heard Hanzo suck in a breath of annoyance, “With me, actually.”

“Yes,” Wu smiled devilishly, “with the Shimadas.How much was it again..?”

“That you stole?”

“ _Borrowed_ ,” Wu emphasized, then shrugged, “it was years ago.Either way, I am here.Protection and all that.Plus, I help them out around here... they aren’t really the best with technology, and this is some world heritage site”—

“UNESCO,” Hanzo interjected.

“—some _UNESCO_ heritage site, then,” Wu rolled his eyes, “and with the foot traffic, they needed some serious technology.Well, they needed at least an HTML webpage.Follow, please.”

Wu turned, ushering them into the small little building that, she could only assume, were his issued quarters.It housed a main living area where one whole wall was dedicated to computer towers and monitors, and the other housed a large television and a sectional.Off to the right, there was a small bedroom with a small pallet bed, cleanly made, and on the left, there was a larger space with a larger bed, which was messy and tussled.In the middle, there was a doorway to what would be the bathroom, and, probably, laundry.No kitchen space, she noticed, however, she imagined there was a dining hall of sorts.And, like in the European monasteries, it was most likely put together out of necessity rather than it being a proper part of the established temple complex—since Wu was not a true part of the clergy, there was no right to house him in the cloisters—but, it served its purpose well enough and kept him far from the reach of the law or the criminals he so vexed.

Posters decorated the walls of a variety of things—race cars, movies (both old classics and new, more modern pictures), gaming vinyls, swimsuit models—and from the lack of organization, she could definitely tell they were a welcomed surprise, but unprepared for visitors nonetheless.A pink tinge graced his cheeks as he kicked away a box of tissues and toed a sock under his couch, before gesturing them to sit.She did, but Hanzo did not—instead, the Shimada brother crossed his arms, “We are not here for a visit, Wu.”

“Of course not,” Wu sighed, “What can I do for you, then?”

Hanzo nodded at the computer system on the other side of the room, “We need to leave Japan with little notice.”

“From the government or someone else?”

“Preferably both,” Hanzo answered.

Wu wagged his finger, “ _Tsk, tsk_ —what has little Hanzo done now?”

“Not me,” he glanced at Angela, “her.”

“Just her, then?”

“Ah,” Hanzo frowned, “No.”

“Oh, so this is maybe more than...” Wu trailed off, “Wait—Ziegler? _The_ Ziegler?”

She, who had been smiling at the banter, blinked, “Yes?”

“That’ll be hard,” Wu frowned—his forehead wrinkled beneath the straw hat—and he scratched his smooth chin, “Very dangerous people are looking for you...”

“Who?” Hanzo asked, “And how do you know?”

Wu took off the Kasa, tossing it on the couch, before walking over to his computer and sitting down in a large leather chair.She straightened up, turning around to watch the curious fellow, propping her head up on the back of the sofa.Hanzo, meanwhile, paid her a glance before he walked over to stand beside Wu.A few minutes of clicking keys, and the screens had shifted from the basic home screen to black with square, green letters, “I may not be active anymore, but I check up on the news occasionally.Have to know who’s talking about who.”

Hanzo narrowed his eyes at font too small for her to read from where she was, “They knew she was heading to Japan, not just when she got here?”

“Yeah,” Wu reached forward, sliding some golden framed glasses on, “and it looks like it goes deeper than your old acquaintances.”

Hanzo snorted, “They were hired.”

“They were,” Wu affirmed, and the keys clicked again as he shuffled his way through information, “by something called _Talon_..?”

Angela’s heart sank—so, it _was_ true, “Talon?”

“Yes,” came Wu’s voice, “a hit.Well, it’s more like an abduction.They want you alive, at least.You’re worth a very pretty penny.My guess, that’s what got the old Shimada gang interested—you’d give them enough money to begin to rebuild the business.”

“Who is Talon?” Hanzo asked.

“More of a _what_ ,” Angela frowned, “but I don’t know why they would want me.”

“You know them, though?”Hanzo’s brown eyes were already calculating something—maybe he was surmising reasons as to why something would be wanted from a doctor—or, maybe she was looking far too deep into his emotions.

“I do,” she said, “kind of.I know more of them.I know some members are left over agents from Overwatch...”

“There’s more to it than just that,” Wu said, his typing commencing again.Some of his computer screens were no longer black, but the normal web, “If you cross-check the dismantled agency with the recent news you get a slew of things... assassinations, kidnappings... both of leaders and old Overwatch agents.”

She shot up, “Who is missing?”

“They aren’t releasing names,” Wu answered, “but they are emphasizing that they used to work on the old program.People are still picketing—news against Overwatch is still good political propaganda to run for office on.”

Hanzo was watching her—he must have noticed the color drain from her face, “Does it give any information about them, outside of their affiliation?”

“Ah,” Wu scrolled, “yes.Engineering and genetics... bio-animatronics... this is some heavy shit.”

“How did you help Genji to survive?”Hanzo asked—it was rhetorical.He expected no answer, thus, she gave none.

Wu frowned, “I think they want to begin a new war.”

“Talon has always been...” she bit her lip, “... dangerous.But, never in the position to do something like that.”

Wu shrugged, “They must be now.Or, else, they have the backing.”

“Get us to Gothenburg,” Hanzo said, placing a hand on Wu’s shoulder, “please, friend?”

Wu glanced up at him, and grinned, “Easy as American apple pie, old pal.”

It was, actually, _not_ as easy as apple pie.In fact, it would take Wu a little over twenty-four hours to navigate the portals that would be required for them to get passable identification into Sweden’s rather overly secured borders.Thus, he offered his extra space to Angela for some well-earned recovery, and Hanzo received the couch, in all it’s messy glory.Wu also offered them both a change of clothing while theirs was laundered and dried.Out of everything that the bouncy former criminal offered, the shower was the most delectable for Angela.It was those little things that she often took for granted being apart of the modern world that, when absent for her life for longer than a day, she felt immediately disgusting.

It didn’t detract from the troubling information of Talon’s meddling—the last she had heard, they were simply put, a terroristic type of organization, pandering their abilities out to the highest bidder.They had never had a structure to their madness or a cohesive plan.However, that was years ago.Now, with Gabriel—rather, ‘Reaper’—in the seat of control, who knew where their loyalties or intentions lied.He had long since been on the path to self destruction, long before that fateful day actually occurred.Obvious disregards to commands issued by Morrison, Reyes had continuously bucked against the authority of the Overwatch program’s hierarchy for the simple means that he believed he could do better than those who had been placed in their positions.He was a disgruntled employee; the only difference between he and an angry cashier at any common retail outlet, however, is that he had the uncanny benefit of being a super-solider class.This made him dangerous.

Then, there was the _incident_.That wiped Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison clean—well, at least by name.They were both now labeled _deceased_ , but in the world of espionage, labels are rarely truths.

What they—Talon—would want with her, however, was outside of her grasp.If rumors had been right, she knew that Talon had access to a scientist of her caliber, though she delved deeper into the strange and unusual—the unethical—aspects of regeneration than Angela.Rather, when _doctor_ was tacked onto her name, Angela had taken her oath seriously.It seemed as if this scientist did not, but rather placed development and answers—these acts of god—ahead of any vow to _do no harm._ It was through these paths, though, that Reyes was able to be saved... but, it was also through these paths that had lead him to become what he now was.Jack had been _saved_ by other means, and retained a grasp on who he was before, though it seemed, now, rage fogged that vision a bit more than she would like.

The only reason she could think they would need her would be for the design of Genji’s suit, which could also imply that they were seeking him out, as well.If they couldn’t get her, and if she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reissue the design, they could peel it off of him and attempt to recreate it.If the recreation failed, there was no loss outside of time to them, but she would forfeit Genji.

Angela’s stomach turned, and she tossed in the pallet bed.The thin, but comfortable mattress was cozy no longer, and she felt cramped and hot.She kicked off the covers, and sat up.Her damp hair was still twisted up into a messy knot on the top of her head, and she chewed on her lip as she stared out of one of the small windows into the nighttime sky.The clouds had finally dispersed, leaving a sheet of navy, speckled with the silvery glittering of stars, so luxurious it looked to be made from velvet.The large, round moon hung so low in the sky she couldn’t see it from where she sat, though she did see the sheen of silver light it casted over the grounds and trees.It must have snowed while she napped, for the ground that had been trampled by tourists and locals alike was once again pristine and virgin.She stood, stretching, the linen pajamas loose around her slender frame—Wu was a bigger man than she by double, but it was sweet of him to lend her some clean clothing, thus she had simply pulled taught the drawstring on the pants and knotted the shirt around her hips to make it slightly more manageable—and quietly opened the door to the main room of the small cottage.

Gentle snores came from Wu as he slept at his desk, his computer screens casting a dim glow across the entirety of the hut, “Can’t sleep, Doctor Ziegler?”

She picked her way carefully through the living room, and sat on the arm of the couch, looking down at Hanzo who, dressed in a second set of Wu’s clean pajamas, was sitting up on the couch.His back was against the opposite arm of the couch, one leg propped up on the cushions, the other resting on the ground, and his arms were crossed over his chest.A blanket that Wu had given him was still folded on the floor next to the couch, along with a pillow, “I did for a bit.”

“Good,” he answered shortly.

“And you?”She asked, pulling her feet up off the floor and propping them up on the couch cushions, “Do you ever sleep?”

“Sometimes,” he looked up at her; he had showered, too—his hair was wet, but slicked back into his top-knot, and his beard was as combed out as it could be for lacking his normal products, “I probably sleep as much as you.”

“You always act as if you know so much about things and people,” she replied, “but I don’t think you know anything as much as you think you do.”

His brows arched—“Am I wrong?”

“I work late, yes”—

“So, I am right,” he tilted his head at her, paused, then asked, “My brother and you... Were you—do you...”

She knew what he was asking.She also knew why.He desperately wanted someone close to Genji to tell him that his brother did, truly, forgive him.He wanted, desperately, someone close enough to Genji to give him the solace that confessing he had overcome that part of his life would bring.She, sadly for him, was not that person, “... no.I mean, regardless of will or want, we couldn’t be.Not now.”

He looked away from her, out one of the windows.It was so quiet here, compared to what had been Tokyo.

“What happened when you...” she trailed off.

“What?Killed him?—or, so I thought?”He stared out the window, and she could see the stars reflect in his eyes, “I thought I was doing what was the dutiful thing to do.My father died.My brother was a nuisance—like a fly.I was told I had to be rid of him, or I would not live up to the mantle my father left vacant.I wanted to fill that void... I regretted it.Once I got it, it disgusted me.All I saw was blood and pain, and I knew there was no honor in what we did.We were just power hungry...”

She remained silent, watching him.He shifted under the weight of her stare, and looked back at her, “Why do you want to know?”

She shrugged, “You just seem... sad.But, you recoil instead of reach out for help.”

“No one can help me where I sit,” he glanced around, “... figuratively, of course.”

She smiled, “Of course, figuratively.”

“I just want to be...” he trailed off, “Genji told me I had to pick a side.I do not even know my options.”

“Honor or duty?” She asked, casually.

“Both are the same path.”

“Are they?”She arched a brow, leaning over on her knees.

“You can not achieve honor without duty, nor is there duty without honor,” he answered bluntly.

“You are making everything black and white,” she responded, “for you did your duty, yes, and found no honor in it..?Yet, Genji refused his duty and now he has found honor, may be?”

“His new duty is to that of...” Hanzo frowned, “...what ever it is he serves.There was honor, at the time, but after...”

“After it was dirty,” she said, “and you realized it—nothing honorable should leave someone feeling so defiled.”

“So, what is it you are suggesting?”He sighed, “That I am unhonorably dirty?”

“No,” she picked her words carefully, “I think you are on the right path, and, I think you need to... forgive yourself.”

“I have,” he answered.

“You haven’t, Hanzo,” she leaned against the back of the couch, “if you had, you would let yourself smile more... you would let yourself show that you care about other people.You would act like you care about yourself... Even I can see...”

He looked back out the window, “You are blind, then.”

“I know its in there, or you wouldn’t be here with me,” she said, “You wouldn’t have bothered.You did what was honorable, but not your duty.”

He cut a gaze back at her, “What of you, Doctor?Why do you run away so much?”

“I do not run,” she instantly argued back.

“Why are you here?”His brows arched up at her, “Why were you in the Middle East?Where have you been since your precious institution got de-commissioned?Everywhere.Wu had to look you up to figure out how to send you somewhere—anywhere—other than Sweden.”

She chewed her lip, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“So quick to judge, but lest you are put on the scales, yourself, dare you not to cast a stone at another,” he said.

“Touché,” she responded.

“So,” he sighed, “we are both broken.”

“It would seem.”

Hanzo looked back out the window, “Maybe this is our redemption arc.”

She smiled faintly, “Possibly.Is that what you want?”

“Redemption?”He asked rhetorically, and answered with a shrug, “I want peace of soul.But, I know my sins are heavy as they are many, and it is not easy to silence such demons... Yes, though,” he looked at her, “to answer your question.I would like redemption.Would you?”

“If I could do it all over again,” she answered, “I would like to think I would have the sense to say no.But, at my core, I think I’ve too much pride.Redemption would be nice, yes, but I think it would be lost on me.”

“You are not as innocent as you seem,” he noted, “nor am I a hero.”

“For all it matters,” she scooted off the arm of the couch, settling on the cushion, curling her legs up and resting her head against the back cushion, “you are to me.”

Angela could have sworn she saw a smile flicker across his stoic face, but for what brief time it was there, it was long since gone.He straightened his back up, and leaned forward, one arm stretching out across the back of the sofa, “I”—

“HANZO,” Wu suddenly yelled out—she jerked up and looked over the back of the couch wondering how long the plump little man had been awake, “LOOK.”

Hanzo hopped up, rounded the couch, and peered over Wu’s shoulder at the computer screen, “What the hell am I looking at?”

“Oh,” she could hear the frown in Wu’s voice, and she got up to go and see, “someone trying to hack me.”

Angela looked down at the main monitor—a series of numbers and symbols kept flashing over the screen in a bizarre pattern—and then over at Hanzo, who was frowning in equal technological confusion as herself.Wu, however, immediately began typing, “ _Oh_ , this bitch is good.”

“Wu,” Hanzo watched the screen flicker as the hacker continued to throw code that flashed across the screen in ominous complexity, “did you get our information done already..?”

“Yeah, boss,” he answered, “I have you both booked on a one-way out of Tokyo to Gothenburg in”—a glance at the clock on another monitor—“approximately eight hours.You are the feisty Mister Miyamoto Musashi and she’s Bettina von Arnim...”

He sighed, “That is not going to work—people will”—

“—not recognize the names because no one knows history anymore,” Wu cut him off, “... _oh_ , look.”

They both stared at the computer screen—series of code a foreign language to them both.Angela frowned, “What am I looking for..?”

“It’s Genji.He is in Sweden,” Wu answered.

Her breath caught in her chest.


	4. Brigitte.

**BRIGITTE**.

_Was it God who powered her, as she donned her armor and saddled her stallion?_

_Was it the Holy Spirit who blessed her sword with the blood of the English?_

_As they tossed flowers to praise the lovely Joan of Arc,_

_They might as well had been fiery petitions for what was to come._

The Christmas lights outside of her hotel room window twinkled in a merry symphony of green and red.The gentle swirl of puffy white flakes fell like feathers from the nighttime sky; yellow bulbs from the Parisian street lamps buzzed, couples out for their evening stroll walked casually by, leaving their paths visible byway of their footprints on the sidewalks.Arms tucked around one another, heavy coats keeping the cold at bay, they all seemed so peaceful, absent of the dramas of the current state of the world.And she, locked high up away in her figurative tower had the visibility for miles around to see what a pitiful state their current generation existed in.For a young woman in her early twenties Brigitte Lindholm was not as naive as she looked; she had the experience that many would still be begging for in their thirties, and had the expertise that was taught to her by one of the best engineers in one of the most prestigious programs known to their generation—her father had been one of the primary designers for the terminated Overwatch program, which, much to her dismay, had been... recalled?... a few weeks ago.Not that she, herself, wouldn’t want to go out and raise that banner under the gumption that she was fighting for the weak and downtrodden, but that her godfather, whom had suffered enough for the world, had eagerly championed his cause to the call.

Her godfather, who was in his sixties, and not in the best physical shape.It wasn’t as if he had fallen to the wayside like most grandfathers and godfathers, where they would drown their forgotten youth in beer and carbohydrates—no, his destruction was caused by the continuous strain he put on his physique.Muscle and tendon still was visible beneath thick, scarred skin, corded strong and large—he had the strength to man the heavy armor that made him appear indestructible—but, his skeleton was beginning to sigh beneath its labored treatment.Joints ached in him; ice and compression bands could no longer hold the pain at bay, and she found himself nursing his swollen ankles and wrists in the evenings with a small glass of scotch and a handful of muscle relaxers.How she wished that he would simply go home; if he couldn’t let go of the fight, retire to that of an instructor.Allow her to become the knight and he the squire.But, no; he saw himself fighting until the end, as if he were the hero in some poetic tale, and the only end that he would have would be in battle.He would be the crusader who believed the only death that mattered would be one done by the sword in honorable combat on a sacred battlefield.

This terrified her, at her core, because she knew—she had the sense to understand—that death was not that romantic.Her godfather, whom should have been born in an era long ago, believed wholeheartedly in a beautiful fall from grace, and an angelic ascent into the legends and lore of their forefathers by way of heroism.Reinhardt Wilhelm should have been a _true_ crusader—a Templar in the early 13th century—but, no, he was exiled for some reason to this modern era where knights were nonexistent, and those that played at such role were laughable, at best.

However, she loved him.Thus, she followed him, much to her parents dismay.

Their current adventures landed them in Paris for a brief tenure—they had already been holed up in the little hotel overlooking Notre Dame for two days—that she hoped would only last a week at most.Reinhardt seemed to be lagging in the cities recently, hoping for another message from Winston—anything other than the recall message and a note to keep on the lookout for possible missions—and she was the opposite, hoping to stay out of range of service for the most part.She didn’t want him to go back—she didn’t want to follow him to the grave he seemed so eager to crawl into.

Maybe he was tired—no, _exhausted_ —and he knew the only way he would be able to rest peacefully, free of the subconscious nagging to be a _hero_ , would be in the finality of death?

Brigitte blinked away the thought and the temptation of tears to fall.She knew, the day they had set out on this Don Quixote adventure of his, that she would be the one to see him fall.The Crusader which never bent, which never even went so low as to kneel under the weight of his armor and responsibility, would, eventually, fall, and the day that he would, would be the day he would never, again, stand.

Her cellphone vibrated to life in her lap as she sat on her cheap hotel bed, and she looked down— _Jean-Paul would like to connect—_ at the bright little screen, the notification blocking out part of her cat’s photograph, which was her wallpaper.She set down the mug of hot cocoa that she had been nursing for the past fifteen minutes while watching the snow, and swiped to unlock the screen.She was greeted with a picture of a handsome enough gentleman, and she quickly flipped through his pictures.Photographs of boats, fishing, one of him ice-skating while holding hands with a woman blatantly cropped out... she wrinkled her nose, and swiped him off her screen to the left.Another face greeted her immediately after—as was the way with these sorts of dating applications—and she quickly closed out to the home screen of the cell.A sigh, and she stared at the phone icon—she could call home—her mother would be able to comfort her and wash away the ill thoughts that had been plaguing her this afternoon, but she also knew that her mother would tell her father.Then, she would get a series of phone calls from him, begging her to return because the battlefield was no place for a little girl... she was in her mid-twenties, yet Torbjörn treated her like she was still a child.She would never prove herself to him.

She clicked the message icon, and found Reinhardt at the top of her list— _Where are you?_

The infamous trio of dots pulsed, followed by an immediate response: _At the Pickled Pig bar.They have great beer here, like home!_

She snorted, and responded with, _Okay, enjoy, old man._

Brigitte backed out of that chain, and blinked down her list—most contacts she hadn’t even messaged in over a month—and some names were those friends of hers that she had left behind when she had decided to follow her godfather in his listless journey across the world (which, she had to point out, had really just been Europe so far).Reinhardt, bless his soul, didn’t do well in the hotter climates of the countries any further south than the tip of Italy, and he was wary of the humidity of the Far East in relation to his metal suit.Really, the old German was a creature of habit—anything outside of the EU would be too new and unique for his tastes, she was sure—and that was what dictated the path they took to find Don Quixote’s elusive windmill to battle.

Suddenly, a notification popped up from a name that had been grey for _months_.Brigitte blinked, and clicked the name, reading the message— _Hey_.Three dots pulsed beneath, and she held off in responding until the rest of the message followed with a soft _swoosh_ sound, _Are you home with your parents?_

Brigitte frowned—this was probably not a good message to receive—at the name on the top of the text chain.Not that she didn’t want to hear from Doctor Angela Ziegler, but because the random outreach couldn’t mean anything good.Especially as it hailed after Winston’s message and her godfather’s acceptance of his old sworn duties.She just wanted to keep him protected—he was under her charge, now, even if he saw it still as the reverse—and she knew she would have to tread carefully with Angela— _No, Rein and I are in Paris.Where have you been?_

_Everywhere_ , came the response, _I have a favor to ask_.

Brigitte sighed; this was where the doctor would ask her to get her godfather.She reached out for her mug, and downed the remainder of cocoa as if it were a shot of scotch, and responded: _You need Rein?_

_No_.The dots pulsed again _, I need you to reach out to an old contact I have.You, not Rein.I don’t know where he is, but we ought to have him.Rein can’t handle politics, and it may take some convincing to get him to Europe_.

Brows arched—a mission just for her?—and she bit her bottom lip, _What do you need me to do?_

Immediately, there was a shared file notification.Brigitte clicked ‘accept’, and the contact was quickly saved into her list, _Contact him.His name is Jean-Baptiste.He reached out to me a few months ago._

Brigitte nodded to no one, “Okay, I got this.”

Before she could respond, Angela was typing again, _I need to go to Japan, but I will be coming home for the holidays.I hope you and Rein will be with your father for Christmas.I miss familiar faces._

Brigitte grinned, _I will make sure we are there._ She added a smiley face.

_If I’m not there by Christmas, please tell Jean-Baptiste_.

The smile immediately left, _Why wouldn’t you be able to make it?What’s wrong?_

_I need to find an old friend_ , came the reply, _and I know I’m not the only one looking._

_Is this why you need Jean-Baptiste?_ She responded quickly.

Three dots pulsed.They stopped.They pulsed again, and stopped.

Brigitte typed furiously— _Angela, please don’t scare me.What is going on?Do you need Rein and I?Is everything okay?_

A smiley face was the response, followed by three dots as Angela continued to text, _Everything is as fine as ever.I miss you all.I have to throw away my phone before I leave, but contact him.He is a good man, and you know everything that you need to know.I don’t want you or Rein to get hurt._

Frustration began to build again—reaching out to Angela’s contact was the treat given before the childlike treatment—and the euphoria that she had felt from first being treated as an adult quickly disappeared.She wanted to throw her phone across the room—to kick and scream that she could finally handle the news and information that everyone treated like some special script only privy enough to those ten years her senior—but, she realized, ironically, the immaturity in such a reaction.A deep breath through her nose and exhale through her mouth, and she responded, _I will.And I WILL see you at Christmas, Angela._

There were no more responses after that, no more pulsing dots.Doctor Ziegler had probably left her phone as she said she would, wherever she was currently.

Brigitte stood, stretching, and walked to the window.Her bare feet sunk into the fuzzy carpeting of her hotel room, her pajamas keeping her snuggled and warm as she looked out into the frigid winter cityscape.She glanced back down at her phone, and pawed through the applications until she came to her contact list.She scrolled down the alphabet, finding the name that Angela had shared with her: _Jean-Baptiste Augustin._ Was he here in France?It seemed like a French name.If he was, maybe that was why Angela had reached out to her..?—no, Angela didn’t know where she and Reinhardt were.Angela had reached out to her because she trusted her; that was suddenly a valuable piece of reaffirming information, as she realized that the conversation she had was with a woman who was, undoubtedly, scared.Something more was happening than what was fueled by Winston’s message.

She pressed the phone icon, and the cellphone’s face transitioned to that of a call.She hit the speaker button, and laid the device down on the windowsill in the off chance that the person she was trying to reach would answer.She always did her best talking when she could pace and wring her hands.But, naturally, when she had worked her way up into how she was going to introduce herself, the ringing ceased and the automated voice came through the speaker informing her that the caller had forwarded her to voicemail, and to please leave a message.The _beep_ sounded, and she scrambled, “Uh, this is Brigitte Lindholm calling for a Jean-Baptiste Augustin on behalf of Doctor Angela Ziegler.Uh, can you call me back?Like, soon, please? _Err_ —thanks.Yeah.”

That was _awful_.But, honestly, _fuck_ voicemails.Who even _calls_ anyone anymore, anyway?Outside of anything work related, it felt like everyone sent messages or emails.The phone screen lit up, and it began to vibrate.The contact that showed up on the face was his name, and she frowned.This was going to be awkward.She accepted the call—“Hello.”

“Who is this?”

“Brigitte Lindholm..?”She sighed, “I said that in the voicemail.”

“I know,” there was a pause in the voice, “... Is Doctor Ziegler alright?”

She blinked, “Yes, I think so.She said she needs you in Europe.”

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line—the voice, which had a deep vibrancy to it and a strange accent that she liked, muttered something incomprehensible to her—and he replied with, “Well, that’s not exactly doable at the moment.”

“By Christmas..?”She asked—how awful would it be if there was one thing Angela had asked her to do, and she had failed at that.

“That’s in, like, a week,” the voice snapped; tone increased in annoyance.

“I mean,” Brigitte shrugged to no one, “planes _do_ exist.”

“You try getting a commercial jet out of here— _PUT THAT DOWN_ —hang on,” there was some shuffling, a _smack_ and then another cursing in the same incomprehensible mumbling as before, “But, uh, yeah.It’s not that easy.Besides, I got her my warning.She should be good enough with that.”

“What did you warn her about?”Brigitte was suddenly curious.

“If she didn’t tell you, I’m not going to,” came the voice through the speaker of her phone, and she sighed.He must have heard her, “ _Look_ , this is all really sensitive stuff, and... I don’t know who you are..?You _have_ to understand that.”

“How do you know Angela?”Brigitte walked across her room to press her forehead to the cold window; her irritation with the whole situation was rising and she felt the flush of anger on her face.

“Well,” the voice cracked, “I mean, I don’t _know_ her, but I know _of_ her.I _helped_ her.”

“And that is supposed to make you trustworthy?”

“I suppose so, _oui_ ,” he said, “Enough for her to ask you to contact me at _eight in the bloody morning._ ”

“Oh,” Brigitte frowned, “I just assumed you were, uh, here.”

“Here?Where is _here_?”

“Err—France.”

“Ha, yeah, _no_ ,” he snorted on the other end, and there was a shuffle, followed by a thud.Someone in the distance—a woman—whined, _What are you doing, Baptiste?_

“Where are you?”She asked, staring out the window, but no longer seeing the cityscape.

“Haiti,” the response was bland.

“That’s...” she frowned, “pretty far away from here.”

“You think?” There was another sound of scuffle, and a scrape, “Get _off_ me, woman—god be damned.”

Brigitte arched a brow, “Uh... should I just call you back?Or... something?”

“No, no, no, no,” he rattled off, “Where in Europe am I going, then?”

She frowned, “Do you just want me to text”—

“No, they can trace that,” there was a pause, “To be honest, they’ve probably tapped my phone.Oh well, damage is done.”

“ _Who_?”

“Bad people,” he answered, “Where?Quickly.”There was another scuffle and the whiny voice cried out in the background, _Don’t leave me, Baptiste_.

“Gothenburg, Sweden.”

“Ay, I’ll stand out like a sore thumb there, I imagine,” he chucked, “Anyway, I have your number.Lose mine.I’ll be leaving my phone here.”

“What is going on?”She demanded.

“Something fairly large, I’d imagine,” answered the voice like velvet, “that we’re all apart of, now.I’ll contact you when I reach Gothenburg.If you don’t hear from me before Christmas, assume me dead.”

“But”—with that, the call ended.He hung up on her. 


	5. Hanzo.

**HANZO**.

_O’ dragon, old dragon, with scales as tough as armor, why-for do you cry?_

_The knights are dead, the kings are gone, and the maidens have long since fled._

_O’ dragon, sinful soul, do you wail at what you have done?_

_Anger hast driven them all from you—your foes, your saviors, and your lovers._

Any flight out of Japan that would require westward travel always went east... he knew that, yet, when he received the tickets from Wu the morning of their departure, he still frowned.Over a forty-eight hour journey, this endeavor would be, with two lay-overs—one in Colorado, and the second in Paris.Thankfully, the only obnoxious one would be the stop in Denver.It was a solid eighteen hour wait before their next plane, wherein they would disembark in Paris, France, and swiftly board another to finish their trip to Gothenburg.Naturally, with their tickets came a hotel reservation that Wu had provided under their illustrious pseudonyms—it was a simple Hyatt adjacent to the airport, so they would be able to shower and, hopefully, capture a few moments of genuine rest in a bed that wasn’t completely awful—and, thus far, he swore none had noticed the direct ties to two historical figures seemingly come to life to suddenly traverse the globe.Hanzo filed away both the thankfulness in regards to Wu’s assistance, and his annoyingly pretentious assumption that Hanzo would prefer to fly first class for the journey.Obviously, the Shimada brother had argued that the tickets in that particular section of the plane could arise suspicions if the wrong groups were watching the right cameras, but, Wu countered with the length of the flight and said that Hanzo would, ultimately, be thankful he would have a chance to have some room on a flight so long.

Unfortunately, Wu was right.Subsequently, when they had left Nikko to return to Tokyo before their departure, Hanzo had been provided with several thousand yen in cash in order to make their trails a little less traceable—obviously, on the gumption that Wu would be repaid from the miniature fortune the former Shimada heir had squirreled away—and, Hanzo had allowed them each a portion of it to purchase a carry-on bag, and a few pieces of clothing to make the journey more bearable.Once they reached Sweden, his idea was that they would be in a position of greater security, and would be able to replenish stock of all the clothing they would ever need, in addition to any missing toiletries.Thus, the essentials were what they searched out, along with some pajamas and a change of clothing, stuffed into their new carry-ons, and, eventually, left Japan behind.

The plane was uneventful save a small child who wailed in the back of economy.The benefits of first class was the ability to utilize some noise-cancelling headphones in order to be rid of the squealing baby, which was already faint enough to not have gone that extra step due to distance between the classes, but it was nice to have the option.He had dozed off several times to some classical music station he had found on the plane’s onboard entertainment system; the occasional times where he was awake, he would glance over at _her_.

His charge—his current responsibility—was as relaxed as any individual could be, or shouldn’t be, in the situation that she was in.The moments that he was awake, she was reading a magazine, or flipping through the television that came equipped in her small first class cubicle, headphones on over her ears, her blonde hair carelessly tussled in such a way that it appeared to be on purpose.And, awkwardly, he began to notice her habits—she would bite her lip if she were in thought, her nose would wrinkle in confusion, she would tap her fingers if she was bored, and she would always smile with polite regard to anyone who took time out of their day to pay her any heed.She wasn’t desperate for attention, though.Simply kind.And, on the few occasions where she thought him to be asleep, he saw her inspect him—to what conclusion, however, he didn’t know.There was, however, an annoying pang at the pit of his stomach where he wished to know the judgement she was casting upon him, for in some weird way, since their last conversation, he felt like he had to live up to her expectations... whatever they may be.

Vaguely, he had wondered, if this was attraction, or if this was something else.

Not to lead on that Hanzo Shimada had never gone down the path of a relationship before—be that a serious one or a one-night-stand—but, that this was an emotion that he had never experienced in either.He had always placed himself in the position to be the judge—he was the one to whom expectations must have been met in order to proceed forward—and he was the one whose personality, schedule, and other priorities, would dictate the duration and level of intimacy the relationship would acquire.Which, he would have to admit, was one of the reasons most of his lovers had been just that... _lovers_.Nothing more, nothing less, and nothing that ever lasted a long time.Hardly anyone could put up with him—to call him _stubborn_ would have been a compliment.

His brother, however, was quite the opposite than Hanzo, when he was... more flesh than mechanical.Genji was a romantic—a little Romeo in a city of Juliets—and his problem was that he was too much emotion.It was his father’s dismay—all these little women that his brother would bring home, like stray animals—and his wrath that Genji found himself facing, as it was his surname which dictated a fundamental class hierarchy to which they belonged, and which Genji did not necessarily heed when seeking out affection.In more common terms, Genji was a fool for anyone who would show him a bit of attention, and often fell victim to the ‘gold digger’ type of girl.Beautiful women, to be sure, with faux class; his parents would see right through their charade, and often belittled them in front of whatever party Genji had brought them to.At the time, Hanzo would share the disapproving look with their parents, but, now, he felt ashamed—not that most of these women would have turned out good for his brother, that is for certain, but, maybe, in the often exchange, there had been a genuine soul?He wondered what his father would have thought of Doctor Angela Ziegler.Would she, a world renown medical genius, a former head of a very prestigious program, philanthropist, be good enough for the Shimada family?—for his little brother?All awards and achievements aside, looking at the vibrant golden hair, the blue eyes, the porcelain skin... his father would have found some flaw in her—labeled her, somehow, unworthy—and Hanzo had to wonder why... outside of simple fear of foreigners, his father would have had no excuse.Anyone could see that Angela was beautiful—both inside and out—rather she believed it so or no.

At his father’s core, the sanctity of the bloodline would have been preserved.Only a higher born Japanese woman would have been dubbed worthy enough of the Shimada scions; a docile creature, bred and disciplined to be submissive and overly-attentive to her husband... like their mother.A woman, who, was another sin on Hanzo’s long list.For he had disregarded her just as much as his father had—she was an ornament, and held no weight—and unlike his brother had.Genji, always, was their mother’s child first.He loved her.He cared for her.He valued her opinion and treated her like she was more than a delicate vase whose purpose was to be seen, not heard.Unfortunately, it was also Genji who had found her when she had taken far too many pills one evening.While Genji mourned, Hanzo sulked with embarrassment in the shame her suicide would plague their family with.She would have approved of the doctor, he knew, so long as Angela would make her son happy, and he thought that she would have managed to make Genji a very untroubled man.

How much of his family’s problems could be placed, truly, upon the shoulders of Hanzo Shimada?—he didn’t know.Not really.A lot of the attitudes and family practices had been inherited from the beginnings of the clan, and a lot of the vices which plagued the two scions of the Shimada tree were infused into their being from their father... However, if there was one thing Hanzo was good at, it was accepting blame.

Less than twenty words had been spoken between them since they had left Japan—he had instructed her, upon their arrival in Denver, to order her dinner to her room and not leave—and, now, he sat in the bland, but clean, room of the Hyatt at the Denver International Airport, casually flipping through the television.Flashes of news stories blinked across the screen as he passed through the channels over and over again, boredom leaving his face blankly staring back out at him in the brief synapses of black as the channels changed.The world was truly going to shit, if the news told it true.In the glimpses of the ongoing turmoil that plagued the planet and it’s most devastating disease—the human race—he saw pickets, riots, police brutality, protestors burning cars and damaging local businesses, murder and injury tolls from human intervention and natural disasters as the planet attempted to reconcile the havoc wrecked by what, Hanzo believed, to be, simply, over-population.The fact that there were simply too many people... that was his answer to everything that the planet was suffering from:climate change?—over-population; anger and war?—over-population; hunger and strife?—over-population; racism, genocide, segregation, general abuses of each other...?—over-population.It was only time, he imagined, before something were to happen where the planet would correct the vast negligence of humanity, much like the immune system wiping out a virus.

He flipped off the television.He stood to get into bed.It was already two in the morning, and there was never anything on, anyway.There was a gentle knock on his door.

Puzzled, but cautious, he took the complimentary plastic pen from his bedside table, and walked to the door—while he had no knives or swords, a pen would puncture just as well with enough force.A glance through the privacy hole, and he scowled, tossing the device back onto his bed and unlatching the door.She stared up at him, chewing on her bottom lip; blonde hair fell around her face and down her back to about midway down her shoulder blades, and she looked so mismatched with her silk pajama bottoms and tee-shirt—“I couldn’t sleep.”

He blinked, “... then watch television?”

“There’s nothing on.”

He had to hand her that one, so he shrugged, “Read?”

“Would you want to go for a walk?”She, barefoot, nodded her head down the hall, “Around the hotel.I walk when I can’t sleep.I can’t stop thinking and... well, I didn’t want to just go.”

She didn’t want to forfeit his trust.She was asking his company because of his request that she stay put earlier.What was he going to do, himself, if not lay in bed and stare at the ceiling?Sure, he could argue with himself that he was going to _try_ to sleep, but trying was not accomplishing, and if she could get some peace of mind from walking around the quiet hotel, at least one of them would be refreshed in the morning.He snagged his key from the dresser, and walked out the door, “Lead on.”

Angela started walking down the hall, her arms wrapped around herself.She didn’t pay him much heed—he was, truly, just her bodyguard—and it gave himself some time to think.How odd they must have looked to anyone who was watching the security cameras that peered lazily at them from their corners like little black, beady eyes.Both barefoot on the carpeting, in pajamas, walking side-by-side but not talking to one another, nor touching.However, he doubted that the cameras at this particular hotel were that closely watched—which, he guessed, was one of the reasons for Wu’s choice—as they didn’t even question the bow-shaped luggage that Hanzo had brought in when they checked-in.Granted, the whole thing was travel-safe.He had put it in a case, de-strung the instrument, and ensured that the only arrows he brought did not have the tips pressed on.He was running low on those—his assumption was that these Lindholms had enough supplies to where he could craft and fletch more—but, he wasn’t worried, yet.He doubted that an attack on them would happen in the airport, and even if someone was that stupid, the place would be littered with cops, both undercover and in uniform.

There was something bothering her—well, there had been something bothering her since he had met her, _but_ this felt different—and, he felt like he should address it.It almost felt like it was a dirty secret... as if he had offended her in some manner, but he couldn’t quite put his thumb on how.So, while he followed her, he watched her; she refused to look at him—her eyes stayed stuck on something ahead or off to her right—and she continuously bit her lip or ran her hands through her hair.It was as if there were something itching to escape her lips—some accusation or question—and she was doing everything in her power to hold herself back from letting it out because of what type of repercussions may follow.He wanted to reach out and turn her around, and demand her tell him what was bothering her—he wanted her to open back up to him like she did the other night—but, he couldn’t figure out how he was _supposed_ to accomplish that.His intentions may be misread, and she may think him more frustrated than concerned—though, he did have to admit, there was a mixture of both emotions.

She turned a corner, and paused.They had climbed down some five flights of stairs, weaving through the maze of hallways and closed hotel rooms, but this was the first conference hall they had come across.The lights were out, save the few emergency lights at the back of the hall, over a grand piano, and all the chairs had long since been stacked along the walls some twenty seats high.It looked surreal—a glass chandelier, which looked as fake as it was, hung from the center of the room, catching the lights from the emergency row, sparkling a splattering of dots across the room, and the soft draft from the heating system caused the glass crystals to shiver, adding a soft bouncing effect to the orbs... it almost looked like starlight.She walked in, her lips tugging into a brief smile, and she, for the first time in some twenty minutes, looked at him, “I used to love rooms like this as a child.”

He arched a brow, following her inside, “Conference halls?”

“No”—she smiled, laughing—“ _empty_ halls.They always made me feel so very... minuscule.”

“And,” he asked, as she turned around to face him at the center of the room, “why is that a good thing?”

“It reminded me how tiny my problems were in the grand scheme of things,” she shrugged, looking up at the chandelier, “We used to go to a lodge in Switzerland before...” She paused, and continued, turning back away from him and leading him further into the room, “... everything changed, you know?The ballroom there was made of marble.At night, I would sneak out of my room, and go to see it... I loved the way my footsteps sounded when I danced across it.”

“Very poetic, Doctor,” he paused when she reached the piano, and she reached out to trace the lines of the glossy black wood, “have you considered a career in writing..?”

She grinned up at him, “I can’t think like that when I’m trying to.”

“Makes sense,” he offered her a small grin, “Do you play..?”

“No,” she sat down on the bench, “though, I wish I could.How wonderful would it be to play your feelings for another to understand?”

“Ah,” he sat next to her, “I am no composer, but, I had lessons.”

It was a fact that both he and Genji were talented in the way of instruments.Obviously, he hadn’t any idea as to what direction his brother had went with his former tenure playing the piano, but Hanzo, the ever diligent son, ensured that he was at the top.The maintenance of such a talent, however, was something that he had slackened in recently—there was no often means of producing a piano to practice when one’s days were more involved with survival than the arts—and, for the first few keys, he played with the tune, finding his footing.Like dipping a toe in the pool to ensure that it was not too cold, he worked the keys and found the positioning for his hands.The faux ivory keys felt cold beneath his fingertips—they weren’t heavy, indicating the piano was more on the cheap side—but, they were properly tuned.His bare foot found the pedal, and, after a moment of thinking, he began to play _Claire de Lune_.

Angela watched; he felt her eyes follow the soft movements of his hands over the keys as he quickly found his way through the song.From the depths of his memory, he dragged out the notes, kicking and screaming, along with the memories that came attached to them, like a parasite.The nights where he remembered practicing while his father would yell at Genji—the fights their parents would have with the broken pottery littering the floor like sharp snowflakes—employees of his father dragging men and women, both, tied and hooded to be interrogated... and, he, arrogantly nonchalant about the darkness in his childhood, would simply work on being the _best_.What a selfish boy he had been—what a selfish man he had grown into—and here, sitting next to her, utilizing his talents for... what?To impress her?This was a show of pomp and circumstance if he’d ever known one... yet, why?Women had been interested in him multiple times—not enough for him to sit down and show off a childhood skill.

Before he realized, she had reached out and took his left hand in hers.He abruptly stopped, but forgot to let loose the pedal, so the notes faded into a long drawn out chorus.Instead of immediately pulling away, he turned towards her, making it easier for her to draw his left arm straight, “What is this for..?”

Obviously, she meant the dragon tattoo that laid, snarling, down the length of his arm and over his shoulder—the latter of which was covered by his tee-shirt, but the former was very visible—which had been the most revealed that it had been since she had seen him.Gentle fingers—warm—began to trace the intricate lines of ink on his forearm, and, he felt his stomach drop out of him. _Oh, no, no, no_ —he would not begin to go down that path with her— _no, no, no, no_ —though, her touch felt so soft and welcoming, and he now noticed how soft her lips must be— _no, no, no... She is Genji’s_.He would _not_ ruin this for his brother... if that _was_ what they wanted... as Hanzo had already ruined so much for his younger sibling.He noticed that he was clenching his teeth in an effort to silence what emotions were beginning to rush up from... god only knew where—he had never wanted regression more so in his life than he did at this moment—and he forced himself to relax, “Ah, it is... just a dragon.”

“I can see that,” she smiled, “it is beautiful.”

“It is a tradition,” he offered slowly, “that we have always done since our family can remember.”

“It makes sense, then,” she said, “why you talked about dragons in the alley.”

“My father had one, his father before him, his grandfather...” Hanzo shrugged, “We Shimadas appreciate the art, I suppose.Or, we like to arrogantly brand ourselves with the creature we think we are.Maybe a mixture of both.”

There was more to it than just that—but she needn’t know the troublesome details—about how the ancient tradition had endured a metamorphosis over the modern eras.Ink was replaced by bioelectronics—originally beginning in the early twenty-first century with ‘smart ink’ that was able to detect blood sugar in diabetics, it steadily became interwoven with technology once the concept was proven—which allowed the use of the actual _dragon_ that the Shimadas were hired to utilize for the past few generations.Some of the lowliest circles—those who were inept enough—believed that it was _magic_ , these talents passed down and kept a hard-won secret of the clan; magic was a barbaric belief and had long since been proven false.The only answer for anything nowadays—he knew—was _technology_.It was just a matter of what kind.But, due to the type of electronic ink that was infused into his skin, made the tattoo appear as dark and crisp, as elegant and beautiful, as fresh as the day he had received it.And, the feeling of her fingers tracing the slightly raised lines of the art piece was addicting.

“Here,” he swung around her, scooting her to the end of the bench on his left, “place your left hand here...” He gestured to three keys at the lower end of the instrument, and when she mimicked him, he placed his hand over hers, pressing down the keys, “These,” he shifted her hand down by one set, “and these.”He repeated the gesture, and she followed, watching their hands, “Like so... And again.”

As she got the slow rhythm, he pressed in the pedal, and followed up with his right hand on the higher notes.The slow melody was easy enough—it had been one of the first pieces that he had learned—but it was always his favorite... Written by French composer Erik Satie around the end of the nineteenth century the _Gymnopédies_ —specifically ‘number one’—happened to be his favorite of the classics.They also brought up more memories... “My father picked for me the piano to master.I was a Shimada.I did not _learn_ things, I _mastered_ them.”

“Why the piano?” She asked.

“ _Dexterity_ ,” he answered, his voice cold, “was what my father told me.Nimble fingers make the beginnings of nimble assassins.”

She looked up at him, “Did you love your father?”

He fumbled on the keys, “No, not really.”

“What about your mother..?” She had stopped the tune, and the silence of the room began to close in with the absence of the piano.

He stared blankly down at the glittering white faux ivory board, the interjection of the black flat note keys lines of shadow spaced sporadically between, and he sighed, “Not as much as I should, I am afraid.”

“I lost mine,” she frowned, “Isn’t it funny,” she pressed down her assigned set of keys, “how it seems we all have had traumatic childhoods?”

He watched her play out the four note waltz, “Great men rise from the ashes of hardship.”

“Good quote.”

“My father,” he shrugged, “whenever he had to justify something he did.”

“To a degree, it is true, but that is not an excuse to be a cruel man,” she continued to play the little jingle he had taught her.

_A cruel man_.Was that what he was?To this day he could remember exactly what his father looked like—from the number of wrinkles on his forehead, to the preference in suit colors that he wore, how many grey strands had speckled his ink black hair, how many rings he wore and what they stood for—and the heavy smell of cigar that always wafted around him, along with the smell of jasmine and cedar cologne.He looked all of a professional Japanese businessman dressed in his tailored designer clothing and his golden rings; the average person would assume that he was a CEO, but Hanzo saw the layers of blood that coated his palms.He could still hear his father’s angry voice—misleadingly soft—as he would critique the failures of his two sons... _Blessed with two idiots to manage an empire_ , he would chastise them as no matter how much he or Genji had pushed to achieve greatness in their father’s black eyes, they were always found wanting.Yet, it was always to him that Hanzo had ran; so desperate for approval was he, that he would grovel at his father’s feet for almost everything.Maybe, he wondered, that was why he had been blind to the severity of cruelty found within their lives.

“He raised soldiers, not sons,” he added a few notes, “Your parents?”

She smiled, “I like to think that they were good people, from what I remember.”

“And then..?”

She shrugged, “Orphanage isn’t really the most becoming of subjects.”

“I believe they would have been proud of you,” he stated; a casual thought made verbal with little thought, which was so unlike him.He was calculated—normally a thinker that was three steps ahead, and then some—but that was a statement made having not gone through his filter.He didn’t like the sudden dismantlement of his well-built walls; she chiseled away at the mortar of his defenses with each moment she spent with him, with each question she would casually ask, and the small punctures that she had already created made him uncomfortable.It was as if she could see who he _truly_ was, and, on some primal level, he was worried that what she would see would disgust her... after all, what kind of person could he truly be?—he who had attempted to murder his own brother because a council of old, money and power hungry men had told him to do so..?He, who had taken fathers from children, and dropped them off the coast of Japan attached to a weight... all for what?—to forever sink into the depths of the ocean because they had lost the Shimada family a pound of cocaine..?She would eventually peel away all his layers—he knew—and she would see the tarnished soul of a damaged monster, and she would recoil.Once he got her to Gothenburg—to these Lindholms—he would attempt to back-trace Genji, and he would be rid of the _situation_ that the doctor had become—that _Angela_ had become.

He didn’t, however, want to see her go.Something deep within mourned the idea of forfeiting her presence—something which had been a little golden glow in the darkness he had encased himself within—that warmed him, and made him feel whole.At his core, he knew it was simple kindness shown towards him; he knew the signs of affection—she would have touched him more, she would have leaned into him more, she would have found excuses to be with him when she was apart from him—and he had long since decided, before he met the infamous doctor that was his closest tie to his brother, that she wasn’t someone within grasp.Not only was she someone who had commitments elsewhere, she was simply the type of person that he couldn’t do that to—his relationships never lasted long, and he didn’t want to use her.She was more valuable than a forgotten name muttered in the midst of a night’s later regret.The best thing for her, and, ultimately, himself, was for him to leave—give her over to trusted hands, and vanish from her life as quickly as he had appeared.

She offered him a smile, turning towards him—better to see his face, “I hope so,” she glanced down at the piano, and her hand fell away from the keys, back into her lap, “and, if it’s not too forward, I think your mother would be proud of the change that you’ve done, too.”

“If there is one parent I would like to make proud, it would be her,” he shrugged, “she was a better soul than my father.”

“What happens after Gothenburg?”She asked suddenly—blue eyes staring blankly at the piano. _This_ was what had been bothering her all night.

“Ah,” he, caught slightly off guard, arched his brows out of surprise, “I leave, once you’re safe.”

“Oh,” she answered, still refusing to look up at him, and her eyes narrowed at the piano, “... where will you go?”

Hanzo shrugged, “I do not know.Depends on the information we find there.”

“What if there is none?”She looked up at him; she was biting her lip, she was thinking.

“I suppose it is back to Japan, then,” he answered, “I have business there.I need to make sure the clan remains disbanded.It’s disheartening to hear that they are trying to rebuild what we thought we dismantled.”

She looked past him—it was as if he could see the series of thoughts trace over her face, though—and then, “They’ll be after you, yes?”

Hanzo shrugged—“They have not really stopped.So,” he looked away from her, down at the piano, and drummed a soft _dum—dum-da-dum_ ominously, “yes.”He offered her a smirk.

She couldn’t help but smile, “Was the conversation getting too serious for you?”

“My life is probably far too serious,” he smiled outright, “so, I’m used to serious.”

“Well,” she bit her lip again, but the smile hadn’t faded from her face, “may I make a proposition?”

“And what is that, doctor?”

“How about you stay?” She offered, quickly following up with, “With us.In Gothenburg.Work with us?—we have been recalled, and...”

“Ah,” he looked away from her—up at the ceiling—and mused, “be a hero?”

She was hesitating, “... yes.”She didn’t say what she wanted to—she was a terrible liar.

“Regardless of how you see me,” he looked back down at her, “I am not the hero you think you need.”

“Oh,” she rolled her eyes at him, “that’s right.You’re such a bad man... but, you helped— _saved_ —me, and you regret what you’ve done, _and_ you are trying to make amends”—

“All selfishly,” he interjected, “which doesn’t make these actions good.”

“You are too busy trying to make yourself... evil... you are refusing to see what good you’ve done,” she turned completely towards him, one leg coming up to rest on the bench between them, “You,” she poked at his chest, “are not the demon you claim to be.”

“You,” he returned the poke, “have not known me long enough to see more than what I have let you.”

She scowled with annoyance, “You are not the great mystery you claim to be, either.”

“You are not as smart as you think you are,” he argued.

Her jaw raised, and she straightened her back—he’d struck her ego, “I do not claim to be overly intelligent.I am just pointing out...” her voice softened, “that we could use the help.”

The _help_.What was the response he had expected?Even he didn’t know, but that answer felt disheartening for some reason, “Not a lot of your agents respond to the recall..?”

“I just...” she began, but stopped, shrugging, “I don’t know.I just know that I would like for you to... stay around..?”

“It might be able to be arranged,” he looked back at the piano, swiping one hand down the set of keys; the sudden sound filled the room and broke the heavy silence of the large room, “I was told to pick a side, after all, and any side you are fighting for is probably one worthy of consideration.”

Hanzo cut her a look from the corner of his eye, and he saw the faint smile curve her lips.She looked down at the piano, placed her hand, and began the soft waltz again, “Can you play another..?”

“Why?You are doing so well,” he reached out, taking her right hand off her lap, placing her fingers along the keys, “Like this...” he put his hand over hers, and pressed the proper fingers down in sequence of another small little tune that most children would recognize.

She grinned, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star...”

“Yes,” he went to pull his hand away, but she shook her head, and he paused, “It is just the same few notes over and over, again.”

“No, not that,” her face had gone stark and serious, and she continued to stare at the piano—gaze so intent, it was liable to burrow holes through the keys—refusing to look up at him, “I—I like your touch.”

_No, no, no, no_ —the voice rose loudly in the back of his mind again— _what she’s feeling isn’t real_.There was heavy possibility behind that statement—syndromes existed that would explain a faux romantic interest from her to him—and, he knew, that if he were to give into her invitation, there would be regret.The angst that would follow such an action would be unavoidable on all fronts; rather this emotion had been spurred by his actions in the alley, or because she may have transferred them from his brother to him, it was not a good path to tread down.Which was why, when he opened his mouth, he intended to turn her down—the cold, distant Hanzo was supposed to make a reappearance—but, that was not the case, “Why?”

Her hand turned over in his, and she ran her fingers through his, “I don’t know.”

“That is not an answer,” he found himself leaning into her. _No, no, no, NO!_

She looked up at him, “I do not want to give an answer for everything.”

_NO.NO.NO._ He turned towards her, “Every action has a reason.Every feeling is tied to an emotion.Every want has a desire.”

She turned towards him, her hands falling away from the piano, and she leaned her forehead against his—he could smell her shampoo, the wisps of scent from her body wash, the leftovers of her perfume—and she closed her eyes, muttering, “If I do this, it changes everything,” she was talking to herself.

He answered anyway, “I think it has already.”

_If you do this, you truly are lost..._ the little voice hissed in his ear, _you know that this is_ wrong _on every single level of your being._ He ignored the persistent voice of his reason; maybe, he wondered, vaguely, it was that voice that had caused him so much turmoil in his life, demanding of him the maintenance of his honor, his duty, and paying his do diligence to the clan.Thus, maybe, he wondered, if ignoring the small voice in his head that kept his demeanor as warm as a sheet of ice wasn’t a bad thing... maybe, he wondered, he would be happier?—after all, the most times that he had smiled in the past decade had been over the span of the some seventy hours he had spent with the Swiss doctor.And, deciding against better judgement, when she didn’t respond to him, he was the one who broke first in this little game of self-reservation.He reached up, his hand trailing over her arm, sliding along the curve of her shoulder, her neck, until he reached her jaw, where, with one swift motion, he tipped her head back.

Angela’s lips were as soft as he had imagined; the feeling of her kiss ignited a fire in his stomach, and he lurched forward, his other arm coming around her back.A quick pull, and she was pressed against him—he felt the warmth that rolled off her body, he felt how soft she was against his chest, and the floral smells of her filled his senses—and her arms slid up his chest, draping over his shoulders.Her hands quickly found his hair, fingers quickly tugging at the tie that held together his perfect topknot.His hair free of it’s bind, she entwined her fingers in his black locks, gently tugging at the back of his head—it felt good.His hand on her jaw slid down her chest, fingertips trailing over the curve of her breast, to find her waist, and he shifted his position to begin running his lips along her neck.She gasped, her eyes closed, as he bit at the soft curve above her collarbone.

Sitting this way was awkward and clumsy—their legs were in the way, their waists twisted—and, without really thinking, he lifted her off the stool, plopping her back down on the keys of the piano.Her legs were on either side of him, and he stood, leaning in onto her.The keys banged with sharp notes and mismatching clusters as she leaned backwards, her head tipping back to allow him access to her neck and chest.Hands ran down her waist, over her hips, onto her thighs, and, leaving his left hand just under her right thigh to help her hold herself up on the thin keyboard of the piano, he reached up with his right to find her golden hair.It was as soft as silk, and as he tangled his fingers in the tussled curls, he pulled her head back up so he could see every curve of her face, “Look at me.”

Her eyes opened—azure gaze with flecks of green and hazel, framed by dark lashes and manicured brows—and her soft pink lips curved into a small smile.He could couldn’t see any fear behind her stare—he couldn’t see any hesitation—he looked for regret, and found that vacant, as well.All he could see was the pretty gaze of a beautiful woman, innocent and mischievous at the same time, looking up at him, “What’s wrong?” She bit her bottom lip, and reached up with one hand to push some of his loose hair from his face, “Was I wrong?”

“No,” he leaned into the palm of her hand, and he closed his eyes, “... say my name.”

“Hanzo,” she said—firm, but soft—full of life and so sweetly, it sounded as if it would be tenacious like honey, “... _Hanzo_.”

He leaned down, and found her lips again, pressing her back against the piano; the keys sang out with the sudden shift in weight on them with sharp notes, clunky chords that broke the silence of the dark conference room.He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted her then.Everything about her was driving him crazy—everything she did, everything she said, how she smelled, how she felt—and he _wanted_ her.He wanted _everything_ about her.She was like a drug, and he was an addict; she taunted him with the way she moaned, she teased him with how she gasped, and when she said his name, it sounded smooth and sweet like melted chocolate... warm to the touch, sweet to the taste, and sticky.His name had never sounded better.

“ _Hey_!” A voice cracked behind them.

Hanzo stopped immediately—her eyes jerked open—and he turned around, his eyes narrowing at the sudden shine of a flashlight in his face.His hand rose to attempt to shield the light from his face, “Get that out of my face”—

“Look, sir,” the voice came again, “I need you to stop.”

“Stop... _stop what_?”Hanzo scowled—he felt her hands grip his shoulders so she wouldn’t lose her balance atop the piano, and he felt her chin against his back as she peered over his shoulder.

“Stop—uh— _molesting_ the lady, sir,” came the voice again—it cracked during its attempt to sound firm and authoritative.

He felt her begin to shake with stifled giggles, and Hanzo sighed as realization struck—so, they must _actually_ monitor the camera systems in this shit hotel, “Does she sound like she’s in distress?”

There was silence from the flashlight, and then a _click_ as it was shut off.Hanzo blinked away the orbs that were left floating in front of his face; what remained was a young man about three inches shorter than him, with red, frizzy hair, and pale skin spattered with freckles and acne.He was wearing dress pants that fit loosely around his gut, and, over what had to be a Hyatt uniform shirt, was a Pokémon sweatshirt.He had his name tag fixed to his sweatshirt— _Herbert_ —and he slipped his flashlight back into its place on his belt, next to his mace.He was the hotel security—probably recently hired, judging by his nerves—and was probably the one of the two on shift tasked with going down to break up the sudden display of affection that had begun on their piano.There was a red tint to his cheeks, too—he was embarrassed, “I don’t know, sir.Ma’am,” Herbert looked past Hanzo’s shoulder, “are you hurt?Blink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’.”

Angela could barely contain her laughter—he felt the rolling shakes of stifled giggles against his back—and, rather she blinked as requested or not, he didn’t know, but she did manage to offer a giggly answer, “I’m not hurt.I started it.You should ask him if he’s the one hurt.”

Herbert glanced at Hanzo, “Uh,” he blinked, “... sir, are you”—

“No,” Hanzo cut him off, “I’m okay,” he clenched his teeth with annoyance and embarrassment, “ _thank you for asking._ ”

Angela outright snorted with laughter.

Herbert shifted awkwardly, and then gestured at them, “Well, I’m glad you’re okay.But, I gotta ask you to take this—er— _display_ to your room, okay?”

Whatever mood there had been had long since disappeared, and Hanzo sighed, “Understandable.My apologies, Herbert.”

The young man didn’t move, but arched his brows, “Uh, like, now.I gotta get back to the cameras.I have to make sure you go back to your room and don’t continue.”

“I just said”—Hanzo closed his eyes, one hand rubbing his temple as Angela continued to shake with laughter against his back—“I mean, we know you can see, now, so why would we keep going?Can we not just stay and play the piano?”

“Look, _dude_ ,” Herbert stepped forward, puffing out his pudgy chest, “do you know how hard it is to clean that thing?—yeah, shit gets in-between the keys and _sticks_.I’m gonna walk you back to your room so I know I don’t have to fucking clean your _bodily fluids_ out of the fucking keyboard.”

Nothing ever ruins sex quicker than ‘bodily fluids’.Hanzo snorted, turning around to help Angela down off the piano, “We are in room five hundred and thirty-two.”

“Okay,” Herbert waved them ahead of him, “go there.I’ll follow you, and when you’re in, I’ll have to check the piano.Any damages, you’re going to have to pay for.”

Angela buckled over with laughter, her arm wrapped around him for support.

“I get it, Herbert,” Hanzo scowled.

“I have to check with my superior, too, but you might be banned now,” Herbert followed up, “like from _all_ Hyatt properties.We don’t take kindly to misuse of property.”

Angela could barely walk with her rolling fits of giggles, and her almost drunken swagger was drawing this long walk of shame out too much for his liking.Thus, he paused for a brief moment, and before Herbert or Angela could protest, he swung her up into his arms so she could prioritize stifling her laughter while he covered walking for the both of them.Her arms wrapped around his neck as he carried her, her feet kicking out casually as she giggled into his neck.

“Which is a shame, really, to be banned from this hotel chain.It’s really nice,” Herbert chastised, “and it would include all of the Marriotts, too.”

“Herbert,” Hanzo glared straight ahead, “I don’t really give a fuck where I’m banned.”

“That, sir, is not nice.”

“You know what I’ll do if I’m banned, Herbert?” Hanzo spun around and glared at the little security officer.

“What?”

“I’ll go to a different fucking hotel,” Hanzo stated, and Angela snorted with laughter again—how sweet of her to find his embarrassment so amusing.

“Is this your room?”Herbert glared at him, motioning to the placard on the left— _532_.

“Yes,” Hanzo stated, “yes, it is.Thank you for your services, Herbert.”

“Get in there,” Herbert scowled at them, “and don’t thank me.If it wasn’t for the report, I wouldn’t have seen you two.I was— _er_ —busy.”

Hanzo paused, “Wait—who reported us?”

“Some guy in a room above the conference hall,” Herbert motioned to the room and tapped his wrist to show that he wanted them to hurry up, “By the name of Wu.”

Angela couldn’t contain herself anymore, and laughter poured out of her as she hung onto his shoulders.

He unlocked the door, and pushed it open, “Thank you, Herbert.Good night.”

Herbert scowled all the while until the door closed in his face.

Hanzo tossed the key to his room onto the dresser, and, now that they were alone again, Angela had suddenly faded into dead silence.She still had her head up against his chest, blue eyes twinkling with the leftover wisps of laughter, “So, they _don’t_ monitor the cameras... but a friend does, apparently.”

“Fuck Wu,” Hanzo frowned, and looked down at her, “and you didn’t help at all.”

“It was fun watching you struggle,” she grinned.

He walked over to his bed, and tossed her onto it, “I’m sure,” he turned to the small minibar that they had in the room—cheap spirits and cheaper beer, all overpriced—and found a pretty looking bottle of bourbon.A quick break of the wax seal, a pop of the cork, and he took his first shot, “That was the first time that I have ever had to do the walk of shame without actually committing the shame.”

She was laying on her side, arms draped outstretched, and she yawned, “We came close, though, didn’t we?”

“We did,” he sat down on the edge of the bed, taking another swig of the alcohol, “Was it a mistake?”

“No,” she smiled up at him, “not for me.For you?”

He looked down at her—“I don’t think so.”

“Will you lay here with me?”She suddenly looked sleepy, and he realized that it was now five in the morning—their flight would leave in approximately seven hours—“I don’t want you to leave me.”

He put the cork back into the cheap bottle of bourbon whisky, set it on the ground by his feet, and let himself fall backward next to her.She curled up next to him—her head on his chest—and her eyes closed.It wasn’t but a few moments that had passed before the gentle sound of her soft snores began to fill the room.He stared at the ceiling, wide awake, and wondered, vaguely, if he even knew what he was doing at this point—for the first time he was unsure of his footing, and uneasy at what tomorrow would bring.

_You are so disgusting_ , the voice hissed.


	6. Gabriel.

**GABRIEL.**

_Santa Muerte, beautiful lady, cold woman, kind reprise,_

_Come to me, for I am broken and in pain._

_Santa Muerte, touch me with your cold hands, let me feel your frozen touch,_

_For the numbness you offer me in death will allow me rest and I am weary._

He missed the simplicity of the military.The steady and stagnant repetition of actions and reactions; these habits that had been emblazoned onto his soul had once allowed him the ability to call himself whole.But, that was at least thirty years ago, when he was a fresh, young man just out of high school in Los Angeles, where he wanted to be something _more_ than just another son of a Hispanic immigrant.He, at that age, was sick of living off food stamps and the charity given to his mother, whom had the most cliche occupation in relation to their ethnicity—he tired of watching her, a single mother, slowly breakdown mentally and physically—as a cleaning woman.He, throughout his childhood, had worked to create an illusion—to everyone, but most importantly, to himself—that he was far above such a future.In elementary school, he played soccer and basketball little leagues; in middle school and high school, he played football; when it came time for college, he was recruited based upon his prowess on the field.His mother’s shelves in their small Los Angeles apartment steadily became full of trophies to her son’s vast accomplishments; both plastic and metal trinkets of a time of glory and innocence long dead that was easily thrown away by the property manager of the heavily Hispanic Section-8 community when Gabriel Reyes’ mother passed away some decades ago.The toilets had caught up to her, he had imagined, and her body had finally given up.

The days, now, however, were filled with events much less firm and predictable like his tenure in the military; missions and objectives floated in and out of his daily and weekly goals like lazy icebergs in a northern sea, and he would wade casually from one to another, divulging the ever-increasing root beneath what seemed like a small tip.How he detested this method of madness—it frustrated him—as it was unpredictable and unmanageable.Even he, the former super-soldier, golden child of the United States’ military, could not cope without the scaffolding that structure provided.Of course, that was not who he was anymore.

Gabriel Reyes had never been a vain man, but he also knew that he had never been unattractive.He worked exceptionally hard for his physique—he valued the aesthetics that a healthy and toned body provided—but his features were also a grade above the average.His Hispanic heritage lended him dark hair, the color of chocolate, and brown-black eyes that women seemed to find attractive; he, in his youth, had taken advantage of that, coupled with his rank in the military.Those days were long gone.His youth and handsome grace hadn’t been stolen by Father Time, however, but, rather, by human action.An _incident_ had occurred—one which resulted in destruction, death, and pain—and, in a fevered attempt to save the _investment_ that he was, he had been turned into... _this_.

What was his alias now?—oh, _Reaper_.How fitting for a dark shrouded, volatile effigy, whose personality had been stripped away but for one emotion... _rage_.

At what cost, though?What was the price that he paid for his continued existence?Had he the option, would he have chosen this path..?Did the answers to those questions even _matter_ anymore?The only thing he knew was pain and hatred.The only thing he wanted was _relief_.

Her name would swim in and out of his consciousness— _Doctor Angela Ziegler_ —for she was the one that he had determined—rather validly or no—could help him.What her medical doppelgänger, Moira O’Deorain, had done to him was something that he could no longer stand.He knew that he would _never_ be _human_ again, but he could possibly be rid of the pain.The continuous and ever increasing pain that burned him, scorching him to his core, with every second of every moment of every waking hour.The pain that was caused by the same methods of his own survival... the continuous repetition of degeneration and regeneration of his molecular composition.At a consistent rate, his cells were breaking down and growing—his flesh bubbled and swirled, like mercury, and burned like chemicals—falling away from his physique in cold, black ash.He hid away beneath a mask and a heavy-hooded duster, though he knew what monster lurked beneath the leather and metal armor.

His fists tightened as he looked at himself in the mirror.

Akande—and Talon, by default—had commanded the order for the retrieval of the former Overwatch doctor, and it was _Reaper’s_ team that had been issued with the task of retrieval.While Gabriel did not care what Akande wanted with her—those chess pieces were being moved about a board that was both above his indoctrination to the cause and his actual ability to give a shit—he knew that, before he was going to hand over the blonde to the monster, she _would_ fix the mess that Moria had created.She had created a suit for another cut down man—she had regeneration technology that didn’t leave behind such disgusting repercussions—and, while he knew she couldn’t bring him back how he was, she could, like an angel of mercy, take away from exhausting pain that constantly blinded and scorched away his very soul.

“Hey, boss,” a voice came through the door; young, bratty, but concerned, Olivia Colomar tapped at the metal, “we have a message from Widow.”

He didn’t answer, but continued to stare in the mirror; _Sombra_ knew him enough to expect no less, and she continued through the industrial grade door, “They’re in Sweden.She’s with Ogundimu.He wants us to scrap the London trip and come to Stockholm immediately.”

 _Of course_ , his plans would come second to the demands of Talon, the organization that he had contracted out his services.These people—powerful, yes, but not immortal, like he—were forgetting that you do not hire a _reaper_... they are not entities that can be bought, contracted, sold, paid... they were gods of death that did what they chose to do and nothing more, nor nothing less.London was, originally, going to be the reunion that he wanted, desperately, with his old rival, Morrison—the old fool had laid down a hit thinking to trick Gabriel into a trap.It would have, however, been Morrison who would have fallen short, and Reaper would have been allowed to satiate his desperate desire for vengeance on two of his former colleagues... Ana and Soldier 76.It would have also made Doctor Ziegler cooperate a bit easier, when he would get her, allowing her to know that if she chose to reject the idea of assisting him, her dear old friend—specifically Ana—could be sent to her daughter in several shipments of small boxes.

“Uh, Talon is sending a jet,” came Olivia’s voice again, “they want us because they know where she is.Widow says if she is going alone, she will bring back a corpse... you want this Ziegler person alive, right?”

The empty sockets of the mask stared back at him from the mirror, a reflection of his soul.What had happened to Gabriel?—death had become him, and engulfed him in the turmoil and pain that surrounded such an entity.Gabriel had died long, long ago.He relaxed his fists, and turned away from the reflection.


	7. Reinhardt.

**REINHARDT.**

_Quixote, upon your valiant steed, do you see the monsters that lay ahead?_

_Little man, older man, who dreams of victory—_

_Ready your arms, man your lance, for the dragon rears it’s ugly head!_

_Charge, good sir, charge ahead—for we shall sleep when we are dead._

They arrived one day after Angela and her... _accomplice_...This man who had, apparently, managed to whisk Angela away from Japan after her—no one would say so, so _he_ would— _stupid_ attempt to find the elusive Genji Shimada to safety, was someone that Reinhardt didn’t trust.Everything about him seemed _off_ :he would brood, as if someone had pissed in his oatmeal, or he would stand in the back and scowl as they all talked over Torbjörn’s dining room table about plots and plans, as if he were the only intelligent individual in the room.The smith, whose home he had invaded by proxy of Angela, had even offered to help him forge tips for his arrows—the fool used a _bow_ —but he turned him down; the former armorer of the entirety of Overwatch wasn’t good enough to make arrowheads for this _precious_ little bowman.Though, he did look slick; he was always well dressed and presentable in his ironed clothing, and Reinhardt had even caught Ingrid and Brigitte glancing at the bowman sheepishly.Women.Why they were attracted to a man who could shoot a projectile, he would never understand.There were more honorable methods of mayhem... such as a hammer or a sword.But, he may have been biased.

Either way, Angela seemed to trust him.For now, that would simply have to be good enough for the old knight.Thankfully, at the very least, under the roof of the Lindholms, unless you were wed, you didn’t share a room.That would keep him at a reasonable amount of distance from Angela until Reinhardt could verify the validity of this Hanzo character.

However, with them—Angela and Hanzo—came news, and with Brigitte and he, came even more.Things were being set into motion that revolved around a target being placed on an old name; the organization, Talon, which had been a pest a decade ago, had grown into a full-fledged empire, it seemed, under one particular individual, and it seemed—from all the sources that they had checked, and cross-referenced—that the organization was plotting to do more _evil_ than it had ever attempted before.With the stress on the populace fracturing over the divide between Omnics and their sympathizers, and those against the robotic force (still fearful from the uprising almost a lifetime ago), Talon was, supposedly, going to fire an assault on the world that would leave them as the only tower standing in a generation of rubble.They would become the beacon of hope, and that was one thing _that_ organization should never be.The person at the center most position of it all was a nuance—a rumor—and nothing more.Though, they all felt like the person who would be calling the shots—this shadow—would have been someone who was always at least prominent within Talon, and, as a result of his rank, someone they should know, if they were to get at least the smallest of leads.

All of this had been discussed the first night they had come together—each holding some kind of beverage of choice—and information had been exchanged.Angela claimed that Talon was after her for an unknown reason—Reinhardt and Brigitte supplied the name of the individual due in London that Talon’s hit had been placed upon (a former agent by the name of Ana)—Torbjörn had even heard through the grapevine that their former sharp-shooter, Jesse McCree, had been spotted hopping a red-eye somewhere out of the United States.Rather any of these threads were tied together in a cohesive pattern that was yet not visible, or not, Reinhardt didn’t know—his job was to fight, not so much espionage—but he did know that all of this began on the fall-off of Winston’s call.Which, he realized, no one had heard from since that initial blast.

“The last time he was spotted was... what?— _five_ years ago?”Torbjörn frowned at the papers that littered his dining room table, “I mean, we all know he’s alive.”

“He’s with Ana,” Angela said, taking a sip of white wine that had been supplied to her by Ingrid, “they were in the Middle East chasing down Gabriel.”

“Wait”—Reinhardt frowned, leaning over the table—“Reyes is alive?”

“Apparently,” Brigitte shrugged, “no one _dies_ around here.”

“Does Fareeha know..?”Reinhardt muttered, taking a swig of beer, “About her mother?”

“I don’t know.I haven’t seen her in... god, _years_ , now,” Angela sighed.

Reinhardt frowned into his tankard—it would be terrible of Ana to let her daughter believe she was still dead.That didn’t seem right—it didn’t seem like something Ana would do—however, if it meant the difference between keeping Fareeha alive or in jeopardy, she would.Ana, sweet woman, had always put family first and foremost—he missed her—“So, we should go intercept the hit put out in London?”

“No,” came the voice of Hanzo, “it is a trap.”

“How do you know?”Reinhardt demanded.

“If you read the lettering of the order, it is telling you everything you need to know to see it is a trap,” Hanzo argued, his own tankard of beer untouched, “Do not be so _naive_ as to assume that, trap or not, you can go in there and swing a hammer and things will just go your way.”

“Little man,” Reinhardt scowled, “You do not know what I can do in battle.”

“This is not a battle,” Hanzo emphasized, drumming his finger on the print out of the hit, “this is _stealth_.”

Reinhardt scoffed, “Of course the bowman would say _anything_ is stealth.”

“Look,” Brigitte frowned, “I don’t think we need to focus on that, anyway.”

“Why?”Torbjörn inquired of his daughter, “Ana’s life may be at risk...”

“If Morrison is _really_ with her, it isn’t,” Brigitte pointed out, “Besides, we wouldn’t get there in time, anyway.And I guarantee that is where this Jesse McCree is headed...”

“Why do you say that about Jesse?”Angela asked, her brow arching.

Brigitte smiled at the chance to explain, “Because of _this_ ”—she pointed to another article about some socialite throwing a large extravaganza at her London townhome—“Elizabeth Ashe is in London.Isn’t that who McCree used to run around with before he was recruited?That’s _not_ a coincidence.”

Ingrid beamed at her youngest daughter, “That is a good catch, darling!”

“ _Ugh_ —mom, please,” Brigitte blushed.

“There is this, though...” Hanzo slid an article across the table, “An auction is taking place in Stockholm.”

“Old Overwatch memorabilia...” Angela looked sad as her blue eyes glazed over the paper.

“Yes,” Hanzo said, finally taking a sip of his beer—his nose wrinkled in distaste, and he immediately set it back down—“The hit on you was real.They’re after your technology, I would assume.Look at what is being auctioned off...”

“Parts of my old lab...” Angela sighed, “and the first issue of the Valkyrie suit.”

Hanzo nodded, “ _This_ is what they are going to be after.London is a distraction, and we are all biting into it.”

Reinhardt caught the look she sent Hanzo across the table—it was a troubled expression, sad eyes that they both shared, as if they had a commonality outside of their chance meeting in Japan—and he took a swig of his beer, “So, what are we supposed to do about that, then?It’s an auction for wealthier men than us.”

“We crash the party,” Brigitte smiled, “and take back what was Overwatchs’?”

“Theft?”Reinhardt scowled, “There is no _honor_ in theft.”

“It’s yours, anyway!” Brigitte argued, “We wouldn’t be _stealing_.Just taking back what’s ours.”

Angela smiled at her from across the table, “No.We don’t need the prototype for my suit, anyway.They want the regeneration technology and that’s in the staff.There’s only one of those and it is here.”

Hanzo frowned, “The person who is behind all this will be there.”

“How do you know?”Reinhardt demanded.

“I would be,” Hanzo shrugged, “if it were me.I would want to see if anyone would be clever enough to find out what I was really up to, or if all my opponents were stupidly looking in a different direction.”

“How egotistical,” Reinhardt grumbled.

“Sounds like you,” Ingrid arched her brows at the old crusader, and Reinhardt had the decency to blush.

“So,” Angela said, “we go to the auction and cross-check guests.”

“No,” Hanzo said, “ _I_ go to the auction, and I identify who we need to be looking for, and then I will kill him if the opportunity arises.”

Angela frowned across the table at him, “That’s suicide.”

“This is a mission for stealth,” Hanzo emphasized, “and none of you are that.”

“You are not going alone,” Angela stated.

Reinhardt jumped on her comment, “Right.You aren’t going alone because we don’t _trust_ you.”

“Rein”—Brigitte began to chastise, but she was cut off.

—“obviously not,” Hanzo frowned at the old knight, “but this is one way you can _learn_ to.”

“I can learn to, if I accompany you,” Reinhardt stood so abruptly that his chair toppled backwards.

“Sure,” Hanzo glared at him, “come with me.But, first, prove to me you can scale the side of a building.Hell, old man, it doesn’t even have to be a _tall_ building...Go climb the shed outside.”

“You insolent pup”—Reinhardt thudded his fist on the table—“like hell you are going by yourself where you can give away all our information to your informants.”

“Why do you think me a spy, old man?”Hanzo continued to glare coldly, “I brought you back your doctor—everything I did to get her back here should be proof enough and I shouldn’t have to prove to you people anymore!”

“ _You have everything to prove_!”Reinhardt bellowed, “We all know Genji’s story!We all know your _family_!”

“Well,” Hanzo’s voice went cold, “send me on this mission and one of two things will happen, you sour old bear—either I’ll die and you’ll be rid of me, or I’ll succeed and then I’ll leave, and you’ll be rid of me _and_ have your man in charge.”

“... Hanzo”—Angela had began, but Reinhardt cut her off.

“Go die,” Reinhardt growled, “it’ll save me the trouble of killing you later when you betray us.”

Hanzo straightened, and turned, leaving the dining room.Reinhardt scowled.Angela shot him a glare, and chased after the bowman. At the end of the day—Reinhardt only wanted to be a hero, yet, somehow, he was suddenly a villain.


	8. Hanzo.

**HANZO**.

_Slither, wither, desperate to crawl, drag yourself out from beneath your rock,_

_Talons made of silver, fangs made from iron, o’dragon._

_Leave your piles o’sweet treasure, your collections of greed and sin, behind,_

_And spread your wings, once again, learn to fly—to soar._

Stockholm was cold this time of year—as was all of Sweden—and the outfit that he had selected for his time represented the temperature.All was made from thick wool, all jet black; trousers with pockets in which he had throwing knives, a thick turtleneck sweater kept his core warm, layered under a fitted black coat, over which hung his quiver which held some forty arrows at the ready.His bow, he had strung over his back for the time being, and over his topknot he wore a black wool toboggan.No gloves covered his fingers—he needed them free to feel the string of his weapon and ensure the steady placement of his arrows—but supple black leather boots protected his feet from the frigidity of the air.His breath issued from his nose in delicate puffs of steam as he climbed the cityscape; dark eyes alive in the evening as he scoured the Royal Theatre from his vantage point across Nybrogatan.While socialites poured into the theatre’s entrance for the highly publicized auction of former Overwatch’s memorabilia, he was busy checking the scaffolding of the historic landmark for the security—the occasional movement along the ramparts, around the dome, and at the corners of the roof meant, to him, that it was, in fact, heavily guarded—but, from this distance, he couldn’t necessarily tell the level of which the security was.He would, ultimately, have to get closer—but, if he could memorize their patterns, it would go all the smoother when he did.

He felt _free_ tonight, though his mind still felt heavy with the turmoil that had driven him to accept this mission in the first place.He could argue all he wanted that he decided to take this weight upon his shoulders to provide evidence that he was a trustworthy individual, someone they all could hold in some level of regard, but, his real motivation was so that _she_ would not have been here in his place.This, he knew, was a situation that was far above their level—maybe even his own—as none of them had been trained in the kind of traits one would need for this.All of those who had come to the Lindholms were former agents, yes, but none that specialized in true espionage—their prowess was found in power, intelligence, or determination... not the slick, tricky, shadow-like movements that were necessary for this evening.He, who suddenly found himself in ownership of a treasure he valued in all its glory, had decided to utilize all the tricks and subtle training that his father and his family had provided him for some thirty years to keep his newfound prize out of harm’s reach.This, of course, was much to her own distress.She was angry—he could tell—that evening when he had valiantly declared himself the sole agent responsible for this mission, though she didn’t argue with him when she chased after him.

Angela had an odd way of making him feel strangely guilty without even saying a word.He was glowering out of the window at the Lindholms’ little farm, his pulse still fast and hard with anger at the accusations that he faced with dragged up skeletons thrown on display by a bitter old man with an obnoxious hammer, and he was debating just forfeiting to what Reinhardt truly desired—his absence.But, no, he changed his mind when he felt her wrap her arms around him from behind, leaning her head against his back; ever since the hotel, they had kept their distance until this moment.So tightly was she pressed against him, he could feel her heartbeat, and he could hear the gentle increase of her breath as she clung to him.She smelled like gingerbread; she had helped Ingrid make cookies in the kitchen before they all began talking missions and clues, “I don’t want you to go.”

“I have to,” he answered, “my place is not here.”

She had come around to face him—he remembered the sadness behind the azure eyes—“I do not want you to get hurt... or, worse.This is not your fight.”

“I have picked a side,” he had answered, “rather that side wants me or no, I must now do my duty.”

He should have kissed her—he should have pulled her to him and held her until he had everything about her memorized—but he didn’t.He let her stare at him, patiently waiting for him to give her more, but he, stubbornly, had remained stone in stoic regard to her distress—all of which was because she _cared_ for him and his wellbeing.He had acted so childish, when he should have pressed her against the wall and begged her to forgive him for pandering to the crowd, giving into this petty show of wills against Reinhardt, and telling her that he would return to her in one piece with no scratches for her to mend.He was, after all, an assassin—his core was shadow and silence, disembodied danger that struck before the realization passed he was there—and this was something that he should be able to do with very little trouble.At least, he wagered, the surveillance.Rather he was able to take out his target or no, he could not make that prediction—he would, however, be damned if he wasn’t able to provide them with a name upon his return.

It looked as if the guards switched positions every five minutes—they rotated counter-clockwise, always moving to the west of the building—which would provide him with a some three minute window to scale the side and work his way into an appropriate corner to take out one or two of them.Simple enough.If they radioed check-ins, he assumed it was every thirty minutes or so—the average for such types of guards—which would give him approximately twenty-seven minutes before they realized something was wrong... so, equating in distance and time required to slip into the building to find a guest list, he would have about fifteen minutes to work as a shadow—completely unknown to the people in charge.Easy enough—he had done more in far less before.

Hanzo dropped down from the building that had become his perch for the past few minutes—lithe figure quickly propelling his way down the old European Gothic architecture—and quickly crossed the street.Thankfully, there was no traffic—the roads had been blocked a kilometer out in all directions to allow society’s elite safe entrance to the auction—and, subsequently, when dodging the humming street lamps, he remained as invisible as he was before his shift in position.Feet glided silently over pavement, cement, and grass as he made his way to the side of the Royal Theatre.He looked up the three story building, and quickly selected his path to climb—a small jump upwards, hands gripping onto some of the filigree in the architecture, and he began his ascent—making his way perfectly up to the rooftop.He listened for the footsteps of the passing of the security guard, and, when they walked westward away from where he hung, he hoisted himself up and over the small ledge onto the roof.He pulled his bow off his back, an arrow from his quiver, and quickly lined up his shot.The soft _thum_ from the bow sounded—hidden by the sounds of people arriving below—and the arrow hit the guard in the back of the head.He quickly slipped towards the limp figure, and pulled him to a dark crevasse so the corpse was not easily noticed.

The guard was dressed better than he had imagined—designer clothing, and an AK-47 strapped to his back—and he wasn’t Swedish, that was for certain.He was a dark skinned man with prominent African features; a tribal tattoo graced half his face.Hanzo frowned—maybe this man was a borrowed employee?—for suddenly, he had a lurch in his stomach where he wondered if this was more than it seemed.Maybe the man behind the curtain, who was pulling all the levers to this game they were playing, was a bit more than he had assumed..?He heard the continued rotation of the guards, and, quickly, shifted position again.Changing around to a different corner of the roof, he drew his bow and lined up the next shot—dark eyes seeing another individual of similar heritage as the first—and the bow _thrummed_ as the arrow struck.This was more than just an auction—whoever was behind this had his own unit of guards—and, as Hanzo inspected his second fallen victim, he realized these men were not just security, they were military.

The pit fell from his stomach and he felt his heart drop; this _was_ a suicide mission.Inside one of the man’s ears, there was a small blinking earbud.They already knew he was here, most likely; they were all in constant contact, as per military units.Hanzo stood, glancing around, and saw, much too late, the butt of an AK-47 coming down onto his head.All went black.

_“Hanzo...” She smiled at him from the white sheets she was tangled in, golden hair splayed out like a halo around her beautiful face.The hot sunlight spilled over her figure—the gaps of the sheet revealing her soft porcelain skin—making her glow as she rolled over, reaching her arms towards him.Soft hands, which seemed so welcoming, beckoned him towards her, and he adhered to her summons.Like a vixen, she giggled as he approached, her soft lips curved into a tantalizing smile, blue eyes glittering as she watched him slip onto the bed next to her—somewhere, in the distance, he heard seagulls and the crash of ocean waves against rocks—“Tell me you want me, Hanzo.”_

_“I want you,” he said instantly, and he felt her hands as they began to unfasten his shirt—the soft tugging of her fingers on the buttons as they parted the fabric away from his skin, “You’ve no idea how much I want you, Angela.”_

_She smirked at him, leaning forward, pressing her lips to his bare chest, “Well, tell me, then...” she moaned against his skin.The vibration of her voice made him shiver—the hairs on his hands rose and he felt lurching impatience—and he reached forward, pushing her down against the soft mattress.He leaned over her, hands sliding down her chest, over her bare breast, her firm pink nipple, down her abdomen... and he began to kiss her neck, nipping at her soft skin—“Or,” she moaned, “are you going to show me..?”_

_“I prefer to show you,” he groaned against her, hand slipping between her thighs, and he swung her around so she was laying beneath him, her legs around his waist._

_“Hanzo...” she moaned, “Hanzo... wake up... Hanzo...” her voice suddenly lurched, and deepened, “HANZO SHIMADA”—_

He blinked, his body was convulsing in shivers, and he felt the freezing water rush over his face again.His coat and sweater had been stripped from him, leaving him in nothing more than his undershirt and pants... bare feet frozen to the floor.Ice cubes from the ice water beat onto his head, face, and shoulders like gentle taps, falling into his lap where they proceeded to bounce to the floor and shatter on concrete.He spit out the water from his mouth, coughing up phlegm and moisture from his lungs; reflex attempted to bring his hands to his face to wipe the water from his eyes, but he found that his arms were bound awkwardly to the armrests of the uncomfortable seat he found himself in.He instantly began to jerk—his legs were bound to the chair, as well, and his torso was tied down, too—his eyes adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights that emblazoned the room with buzzing white light.The walls were a mint green tile—the floor a polished concrete—and hanging around him, from chains embedded into the ceiling, were racks of pork and cuts of beef.His breath rose out of his nose and mouth in white puffs of mist, and he realized that he was in a deep freeze—industrial sized.Individuals stood next to the only door out of the room—two guards with skin as black as night, dressed in their designer clothing with their guns on their backs—and, as he glanced around the room, he saw a face staring at him from a chair across from him.

The man was clean shaven, skin the color of chocolate, and no kindness was in his brown eyes.He was well dressed—far better dressed than his men—and one of his arms was Omnic.He had golden framed sunglasses hanging from the collar of his v-neck sweater, which fitted his muscular figure perfectly tailored.His sleeves had been rolled up, and, in his one human hand, he held a cigar, “No more water.Our friend is awake, see?”His accent was African, but Hanzo couldn’t pinpoint from _where_.

“Who are you?”Hanzo demanded, forcing himself to relax in his binds; he wasn’t getting out of this.He had been caught.

The man regarded him casually, “I do not answer to demands.Especially when they are issued by someone who killed _two_ of my men.”

Hanzo scowled; brown eyes looked further around the room.In addition to the two guards by the door, there was a woman standing in the far corner—her skin was so pale it seemed blue, her hair as dark as night, pulled back into a tight ponytail—dressed in a tight bodysuit.Next to her, propped against the wall was a long sniper’s rifle, his bow, and his quiver.Dark eyes regarded him coldly from her pretty face.She held his eye contact with her challenging cold gaze—he looked away first.This... this was not a good situation to be in.In fact, it was probably one of the worst in which he found himself.What wouldn’t he have given to go back to the sunny bed on the beach with his doctor?—he would have much preferred to have simply been killed, if that was what his eternity would have been.

“I know who you are,” said the man casually—he chewed on the cigar before he inhaled, the ash on the end glowing a bright orange before he slowly exhaled the smoke through his nostrils—and he leaned forward onto his knees, “Hanzo Shimada.”

“Ah,” Hanzo frowned, shivering in the cold, “congratulations.”

“You are a fascinating person to read about, you know,” the man said, his brows arching over his cold, brown eyes, “and your work impresses me.How long were you an assassin for your father’s enterprise?”

Hanzo glared; he could feel flecks of ice forming on the wet strands of his hair that hung around his face, “Far too long.”

The man grinned—bright white teeth filled his face—though there was little friendliness behind the smile, “Eager to man the helm on your own, then?Did you off your old man?”

“No,” Hanzo answered, “the clan is disbanded.”

“Shame,” the man said, inhaling another deep breath from the cigar, “but your work during your tenure for him?—it was _art_ , you know?How many people did you get to sing?How many songs did you hear?Confessions,” he wagged a finger at Hanzo, “are very difficult to obtain unless you know what you’re doing.”

Hanzo knew _exactly_ where this was going. _This_ was the man behind it all, “What would you like me to sing, then?”

The man grinned again, and held up his cigar, “Do you know what this is?”

“I am assuming you will tell me,” Hanzo answered.

The man laughed, turning around at his men and the woman against the wall, gesturing at the Shimada scion, “He is witty, no?”The party he was talking to remained emotionless, quiet, and the man turned back to Hanzo, “This will go poorly if you continue to have an attitude.”

Hanzo tried to ignore the pins and needles beginning in his fingertips—his toes—as they succumbed to the cold, and he felt his body begin to shake more, which he attempted—and failed—to quell, “I have somewhere to be, and this is taking up my time.My apologies for being incessant.”

The man did not smile—he did not laugh—but he suddenly lurched forward, and hit Hanzo with what felt like the force of a cinderblock.Stars immediately speckled Hanzo’s vision, and he tasted blood in his mouth; the thick coppery liquid flowed over his tongue, followed by a sharp nagging pain... he had bit it when the man had punched him.He blinked away the spots, and spit bloody phlegm onto the floor.When he returned his gaze to the man, he said, “What you do not know, Hanzo Shimada, is who I am.Allow me to introduce myself.I am Akande Ogundimu.”

Hanzo filed it away in case he survived, “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

“You will tell me everything you know before this is all over,” Akande said, inhaling another puff from the Cuban cigar, regarding it casually, “and I do hope you hold out.I am very bored, and I feel like extracting the song from the master of the orchestra would be quite fun.”

“You’ll learn little of interest,” Hanzo shrugged as much as his bindings would allow, “I’m new to this espionage... thing.If you’d like contacts for drugs, human trafficking, prostitution... I have those that I need no longer, and you are welcome to them.”

Akande laughed again—a deep roll from the depths of his chest—and he gestured at the woman behind him.She moved out of Hanzo’s sight behind some of the hanging sides of beef, “You know what I want to know.I will find it buried deep, deep within that brain of yours.Just you see... I admired your work, you know...” When she returned, she was pushing a metal cart full of blades and spears, vials of liquids, and a very long needle attached to a cylinder which held saline and some little device.She stopped the cart directly in front of Hanzo, and while Akande continued talking from his comfortable seat across from the archer, she picked up the needle, and pulled the plastic protector off.Long legs positioned themselves on either side of his, and she sat in his lap, one dark brow arching slightly as she leaned into him, putting the point of the needle along the side of his neck, “What she is giving you, here, is a tracker chip...We are not going to kill you.Just have some fun.And when we leave you, they will come and collect you... and _viola_!”

Hanzo glared as the needle slipped into his skin.He felt her push the liquid and, subsequently, the chip, beneath.When she removed the needle, she regarded him coldly—frozen fingertips traced the bridge of his nose, and along the curve of his cheekbone—and when they reached his lips, they became stained with his blood.Her eyes left his, and she regarded her hand stoically, “When I go to kill them,” she said, eyes cutting up at him, “I will kill her first.When she dies,” the woman leaned into him, “you will break... when you do, you will come back to us.”She licked his blood off her fingers suggestively, a small smirk curving the corner of her mouth, “You are like me.You are a killer.You will learn to feel _alive_ when you take a life.”

“Get off me,” he sneered, “I will kill you before you ever come near her.”

She grinned, “Ah, _chérie_ , you will honor me with such a death?”

The woman stood, her boots clicking as she walked back to her place against the wall, where she folded her arms gracefully across her chest, and Akande waved his cigar at her, “That is Widowmaker.She used to be a ballerina.Now she is our personal killer.”

Hanzo’s eyes returned to his captor, ignoring the woman against the wall, “Can she still _pirouette_?”

Akande shrugged, “Can you, Widow?”

“ _Va te faire foutre_ ,” she muttered coldly.

“Ah, well, I s’pose we will never know...” Akande stood, another long draw from his cigar, and took a few steps towards the archer.He regarded the display of specially chosen instruments with intent, his fingertips trailing along the stainless steel.He turned back to Hanzo, who was shaking beneath the ever-increasing layers of frosty ice that grew over his wet clothes and hair, “Where are they holed up, Hanzo?”

Thus, it began.He glared at his would-be torturer, “I do not know.”

Akande nodded casually—he was looking forward to a difficult subject—and, he drew another deep pull from the cigar.He blew the smoke into Hanzo’s face, and smiled—Hanzo had never seen a colder grin before—“Who is all with Ziegler?Is it Wilhelm?Morrison?—do they have access to the database?”

“They sent me on this mission for a reason,” Hanzo answered flatly, “do you think they would entrust such information with such a disposable individual?”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” Akande rolled his eyes, “to think that we would know so much about you from— _what?_ —newspapers?No, no, no, Hanzo.We found a _friend_ of yours, _first_.It wasn’t that hard.He didn’t last long, either.”

Hanzo’s brows drew together, “Wu?”

“The fat little monk?”Akande nodded, “Yes.”

“Is he alive?”

“No longer,” Akande shrugged, “He had a low tolerance... unlike you, I would imagine.”

Hanzo closed his eyes—another life forfeit because he had decided to play hero?—and he wondered how good of a person could he truly be if he was simply getting those around him killed? _This is what you get_ , he heard a hissy little voice in the back of his consciousness, _for all your sins.This is your penance... this is the price you pay.See all the blood on your hands?—it can only be washed away with that of what you hold dear._

“So, Hanzo, shall we continue?”Akande asked.

“You can try,” Hanzo glared, “but I will never break.”

Akande showed the first sign of annoyance that Hanzo had noticed.His big chest expanded as he sighed; he looked at the cigar in his hand, and then, in one quick movement, snuffed the flame on Hanzo’s forearm.Searing pain shot through his nerves—it rushed along his arm, almost as if it were buried deep within his bone—and he found himself jerking, futility, against his binds.He grunted through clenched teeth at the man across from him, his breathing heavy as the pain faded into a stinging throb.Akande discarded the cigar to the floor and looked down at the Japanese bowman, “Where are they?Just tell me that and away you go.”

“Do not think me stupid,” Hanzo glared, “you put a tracking chip in me.Why would you do that if that was the answer you wanted?Ask me your real question so I can not provide an answer, and we can move on.”

Akande laughed, “Very well.”He glanced at the cart, and all its instruments; he picked up a pair of brass knuckles, casually turning them over in his hand before setting them back down, “Where is the Valkyrie suit?I want the technology.”

“The only one I know of was at the auction,” Hanzo watched Akande’s eyes as the cold, brown gaze inspected him, “which is why I was there.”

“Lies,” Akande accused, “you know that was the prototype.Where is the _real_ one?”

Hanzo shrugged, “I do not know.”

“Not his hands,” the woman in the back said, “... I would prefer not his face, either, but, if he is going to kill me with that bow, he will need use of his hands.”

Akande, rather he was listening to the woman or not, did adhere to her request.Hanzo’s hands were spared, but, his face was not.Another heavy punch came from the man’s human hand—stars, again, splattered his vision—and he felt fresh blood begin to pour from his nose and down his throat.He lurched over, coughing, bubbles of blood and saliva spewing over his lap and splattering the floor.Somewhere, deep within the darkness of his consciousness, he heard Angela’s voice, _Hanzo Shimada... tell me you want me_.He quickly blinked away the temptation of the blackness of unconsciousness—he wouldn’t allow any memory of her to be attached to this event—and her voice faded.Another clear of his throat, and he tipped his head upright again, spitting a clot of blood to the floor.

Akande was wiping Hanzo’s blood off his knuckles with a tissue, “Where is your brother, then?”

“I do not know,” Hanzo answered, “you have a better chance at finding him than me.”

Akande nodded acknowledgement, “Ah, so you can tell the truth.”

“I have been,” Hanzo replied.

“Lies return,” Akande sniffed dismissively, “What is the access code to the database?”

“Ah,” Hanzo straightened up in his chair the best he could, “I believe it is ‘go fuck yourself’... with exclamation point at the end.”

Akande considered his human hand, but, opted for it’s Omnic counterpart.The metallic attachment clenched, and struck Hanzo in his abdomen.The immediate reaction that his body had was to try to vomit—nothing was in his stomach save some phlegm and blood—and he coughed and hacked up brown bile that burned his throat.Fuzzy, warm darkness threatened to encroach him again—the stars that dotted his vision expanding larger—but he chewed on the inside of his cheek to force himself to keep conscious.The pain in his abdomen was almost incomprehensible... he knew he had at least two fractured ribs, now.When he didn’t straighten back up, Akande pushed him back in his chair, and Hanzo screamed in the pain of the sudden shift—the shattered ribs moved about uncontrollably like splinters.

_Hanzo... come back to me_ , he heard her voice in his ear—a soft whisper—so sweet and warm, full of passion and longing, _come back to me, please... this is not your fight._

He blinked, quickly trying to ground himself once again in the present, “One of the words may be capitalized, I can’t remember.”

The French woman snorted with a little laugh, “Why are we wasting our time, Akande?He isn’t going to talk.”

Akande, who was looking at Hanzo, narrowed his eyes—he, Hanzo could see, was not the type that often had individuals question his actions—and shrugged, “A bit of fun.Maybe the chance to put one out of commission for a while.”

“A broken nose,” she sounded bored, “some fractured ribs... a black-eye..?You think that will put him out of commission for a while?This showmanship of barbarism is boring.”

Hanzo’s eyes refused to break the stare that he was sharing with Akande, whom arched a brow at the woman’s comments before answering, “What would be your suggestion?”

“Drop him off in the snow,” she said, coldly, “unconscious, for them to find.We already have the tracker in him.Follow it to where they take him.Then let _me_ do _my_ job.”

“Is Reaper on his way?”Akande asked, “You did reach him about London, yes?”

“ _Oui_ ,” she answered, “He will be disappointed, but...”

“Morrison is key to the database we need,” Akande stated, “but we need the fucking Valkyrie suit if I am to...”His cold brown eyes narrowed at Hanzo as he faded off in thought—“Let’s move.We are done here.”

There was a shuffle of immediate activity.The men at the door opened the freezer; more military men came into the room, quickly collecting instruments and relocating the chairs that had been utilized by Akande to their proper spots.He heard, vaguely, the sounds of a thumping bass from somewhere above... were they near a club?—there hadn’t been one near the theatre?He was suddenly curious as to the time—surely he hadn’t been missing for too terribly long... He watched as the thin woman, beautiful in her cold supremacy, walked towards him, frozen in his bindings.She leaned over to him—Akande was distracted barking quickly obeyed orders to his men—and pressed a cold kiss to his cheek, whispering in his ear, “I have saved you, _mon beau_.”

He scoffed, “You’ve saved me?From what?He wouldn’t have killed me anyway.”

She smiled at him, dark eyes dancing with devious intent, and she pulled another syringe off the little metal cart full of unused torture tools, “He would have.He does not know his own strength when he uses his _other_ hand.”

Hanzo watched as she raised the vial to the light, flicking the glass and pushing the bubbles out of the needle, “What is that?”

“Oh?”She straddled him again, sitting in his lap, and leaning forward so her chest was against his, “This?”

Hanzo didn’t respond.

She tossed her long ponytail, and she slipped the needle into a vein in his left arm, pushing in the clear liquid, “Something that will make you sleep for a very, very long time.”

He watched the needle emotionless; the sharp prick from the instrument and the burn of the liquid in his vein was nothing compared to the throbbing in his chest, abdomen, and head, “How hard is it to remove the chip?”

She smiled devilishly at him, “Not difficult.”

He glanced over her shoulder—Akande was still busy and distracted, discussing something over a radio—and he looked back at her, “Do you work for him or with him?”

“I work for myself,” she answered, “and, right now, it behooves me to assist you.”

“Who is Reaper?”His eyes suddenly felt heavy.

“My _real_ boss... currently.”

“What is happening..?”Hanzo felt groggy.He blinked, trying to fight the sudden wash of drowsiness that was attempting to swallow him, “Why were they recalled..?Who is Akande..?”

She leaned into him, whispering into his ear, “Hush, _mon chéri_ , you are beginning to speak very loudly.He will hear...”

“Tell me,” Hanzo slurred.

“No,” she draped her arms over his shoulders; the medication she had given him had even suppressed his convulsions, and he felt oddly warm.She was beautiful; her skin was icy perfection, her features small and porcelain, wide eyes that could look both innocent and completely disassociated at the same time, and her lips were rosebuds of deep purple.Her breathing was so slow, it was almost non-existent, and, vaguely, he wondered if her heartbeat wasn’t just as slow..?She regarded him coolly—whatever emotion that was passing beneath her surface, he couldn’t find, “But, I shall.I _will_ find you.I _feel_ the same in you that is in me... you are _almost_ as empty as I am.Not quite _yet_ , though.”

“And...” he blinked, fighting the lethargy, slurring his whispered insults, “... you are a lonely killer?”

She shrugged, “You _think_ you have found something to fill where your soul used to be.But, _alas_ , you have not. _C’est la vie_.”

His head rocked forward—his stomach lurched—and he jerked back, fighting, still.Somewhere, far away, he heard, as if through water, Angela, _Hanzo... oh, Hanzo... what have you done?Why?—did you ever love me..?_ Love?—did he?He shook away the faux premonition of failure, “I will not be the entity to fill your void.”

She smiled, “We will see.If you want answers, meet me in Paris... Remember this, Hanzo...” She leaned into his ear, and whispered, “January twelfth, eleven o’clock in the evening, in front of the Notre Dame.”She tipped her head, placing a kiss as cold as ice on his neck, and, once again, he was falling into the depths of unconsciousness.

_The blossoms from the cherry trees were beautiful as they glistened with the morning dew far, far above his head.They looked like little pink kisses overhead, hovering so far out of his reach, they teased him like stars.The breeze would roll through, warm and comforting, like a hug, and make them shiver playfully, shaking loose warm droplets that would sprinkle his face like tears.He giggled, as most children do, and wiped away the dew with the chubby hand of a toddler.His gaze turned away from the early morning sky and cherry trees, and found the warm face of his mother—her light brown eyes twinkling down at him like almond shaped ambers, her beautifully painted red lips curved into a wide smile—who reached down, picking him up to twirl him around.For the briefest of moments, Hanzo felt so close to the cherry blossoms, he thought he could reach forward and snatch one from the sky.Chubby hands extended at their furthest length, and he giggled as he was twirled about, attempting to grasp the beautiful petals from the branches._

_“Hanzo, be careful,” his mother warned as she twirled him, her black hair swirling around them both like a dark, warm veil, “for the branches may cut you.”_

_He disregarded her warning, straining further to reach—he wanted, so desperately, to touch one of the powder-pink blossoms—and, as he did, his giggles faded, replaced by a face of determination and desire.His mother continued to twirl, faster, and faster, and he rose higher, and higher in her arms.His hands were able to reach further out, and, finally, he snagged a branch.His joy quickly turned into fear—the pain that laced through his body was insurmountable—and suddenly he had lurched to a stop.He stumbled, and no longer was he a short toddler in his mother’s arms.He was a young man, and he blinked down at his grasped fist.Blood began to pour from between his fingers, oozing out of his palm and running down his forearm to drip to the ground.It pooled at his feet; bright and vibrant against the white tiled floor on which he stood._

_He recognized the marble.His eyes rose as he quickly looked around—no longer was he standing in the courtyard of his family’s ancient castle—and he realized that he was in the kitchens.He opened his palm, and found, wedged deep within his skin, a sharp shard of pottery.He reached out with his left hand, and winced as he pulled the triangular shape from his skin.Blood immediately flowed, deepening quickly in his palm.It looked disgustingly black against the stark white of his palm, and suddenly he felt sick.The smell of copper was overwhelming... how could so little blood produce such a sweet, metallic scent?_

_“I am so sorry, mother,” Genji’s voice floated out of the abyss, and Hanzo turned to see his brother—face still handsome and youthful—bloodstained as he cradled the lifeless body of their mother... her black hair had long since become streaked with silver.Beside Genji, there was a shattered vase—the crisp blue artistry still obvious against the white porcelain—and he was convulsing with sobs.Sticking out of her neck was a large shard of porcelain.Hanzo looked down at the shard he had removed from his hand, and it dropped to the floor.Genji’s voice wailed through the fog of long since suppressed memories, “Why, Hanzo?Why would he do this..?Why?She didn’t do anything to him.Hanzo, you can’t defend him, anymore... he murdered an innocent because, why?—because she spoke?”_

_“Genji, I...” Hanzo tried to talk, but his voice caught in his throat.Suicide.He remembered a suicide.Or, was that a lie that was told so often it had become a truth?_

_“... He’s evil, Hanzo,” Genji cradled their mother in his arms, ignorant of the amount of blood that was congealing around them like a gelatinous quilt, brushing the hair away from her empty face as if she were a child, “this family is evil.We will kill everything we touch, Hanzo... just like he has to mother.”_

_“We are different,” Hanzo replied, immediately, “Genji, you are different.”_

_“No,” he said, “the anger that fuels this family is in me.I feel it writhing, like a cancer.It is burning me from the inside out, Hanzo, and I haven’t the strength to fight it anymore.”_

_Hanzo lurched forward—he wanted to go to his brother—but, the moment he stepped, he felt the ground fall away from his feet.Darkness quickly engulfed the kitchens of the Shimada castle, and his brother faded away.Pain rose in his head; a wild throbbing reared forward into his consciousness, and he reached forward to place his hands at his temples.They felt warm and sticky—more blood.He realized that he was laying stomach down on the hardwood floor of the principle room of their estate, his black hair free around his face.It held a length that he hadn’t allowed it to be since his mid-twenties.It looked clotted and greasy, but_ _he realized that was just because it was heavily laden with blood.Always blood._

_He began to push himself up off the floor, but a cold voice stopped him in his tracks, “You do not get up until I tell you that you can.”_

_Hanzo blinked, and looked around.His father was standing over him, his cane that had become a staple of his being in his later life had a smear of blood and hair midway down the elegantly carved wooden stick, and he was seething with anger.White teeth were gritted in a sneer that looked borderline insane; his suit was no longer complete, as the jacket had been removed and the crisp white sleeves of his Oxford shirt had been rolled up to his elbows.Hanzo had forgotten that the dragon tattoo that graced his father’s arm had been red.He raised his cane again, and lurched forward, striking Hanzo in his back—the pain blossomed like a poisonous flower, and laced through his body like venom—and he fell back to the floor where his cheek flattened against the hardwood, “How dare you attempt to ruin this empire with such negligence!”_

_“She was just a child,” he found himself saying in the replay of memories._

_“She was a WITNESS,” his father’s voice deepened, “and child or not, she can give anyone our name.You were told to kill any there.”_

_“She was three,” Hanzo found himself arguing, he felt hot tears beginning to burn the back of his eyes.Rather he cried that night or not, he did not know, but he found himself threatened with doing so now._

_“A three year old is no loss in this world,” his father said, and he heard the cut of the cane long before he felt it; this time, the wood splintered and snapped over his shoulder blade, “I have sent Genji after her.He will either finish the mess you left undone, or I will end them both.I am tired of this disobedience.”_

_“NO”, Hanzo rolled over onto his back, attempting to shove his shaking body up, but his sweaty palms slipped on the wood, “no, let me fix my mistake, father”—Genji would not kill a child which meant... and, even if he found himself capable, it would break him, still the same... Genji still had a layer of innocence that needed to be protected—“allow me to correct this...” he knew he had to tread carefully, for his father would never adhere to Hanzo’s protection of his younger brother’s mentality, “... to repair my honor and duty in your eyes towards this family.”_

_“See?”His father discarded the broken cane—it clattered across the hardwood floor—and he raised his hands, “How difficult is it to earn my respect and love, Hanzo?Simply doing what you are told is enough.”_

_As he hoisted himself up off the ground, the pain continuing to throb throughout his body, he realized the shadows ever on the outer rims of his memories had begun to slink forward, encroaching upon the area of light in which he stood.The blackness, he realized, was too thick to be shading—it was writhing, like a mucus—and it pulsed with movement.He took a step forward, curious, his eyes burrowing into the shadows a few yards away, arm outstretched to see if he could feel what type of viscous material encircled him in his subconscious hell that he had been made a prisoner of.However, before he could move too far, he realized he was standing on the edge of a deep hole.The hardwood paneling had faded to grass, and the pain from his father’s beating had passed.His hair was no longer long, and he suddenly felt the itch of facial hair._

_“Fuck him,” Genji’s voice whispered next to him, “finally, fuck him.”_

_Hanzo turned; his brother was standing next to him dressed in his finest suit.Clean-shaven and bright-eyed, Genji finally looked as if he had the world removed from his shoulders.They were at their father’s burial, he realized; the death of a god which had shook the criminal world much like an earthquake, leaving seismic destruction all around them for the brothers to repair.But, he realized that he never wanted that responsibility.He did not wish to follow his father’s designer leather footsteps.Nor, he knew, did Genji.They were both tired of the cruelty—the blood—the hatred that had broken the family and destroyed the virtuous definition of ‘honor’ for the Shimada clan to be the twisted malformation that they were.Yet, he knew his wants and his duty was two separate emotions that needed to be kept apart.The mantle would fall to him, and he almost felt the physical representation of the vast empire his father left come to sit upon his shoulders.At the very least, maybe he could offer his brother an exit?—save him the darkness that would engulf him otherwise?_

_Black, beady eyes began to open around the grave—wrinkled, sagging faces of the council members—and they stared darkly at Hanzo and Genji.Their withered frames sagging beneath the weight of their suits and their gold, all clinging onto an ornate cane like his father had broken over his back.Their mouths gaped, rotten teeth wiggling as their breath shook their bodies, “Kill him,” they commanded Hanzo, fingers rose and pointed towards Genji.Hanzo turned towards his brother, and as he did, the scenery lurched again.He felt dizzy—he found himself staring down his brother from across a room, both dressed to fight, both with swords in hand—and he blinked repetitively.He felt bile rise in his throat... he would not watch himself do this again.He refused._

_“NO!” He screamed at his subconscious.The shadows on the side writhed angrily; small fingers began to slip out of the ooze, pulling tar-covered hands and arms out of the depths.They tried to drag themselves towards Hanzo, who, realizing what was happening, dropped his sword to the ground.There was no clatter or clang as the instrument hit the tiled floor.He spun ‘round, eyes widening as the shadows began to lurch forward—thousands of black, sticky hands reaching towards him—and he quickly took a few steps back.His feet fumbled, and slid out from beneath him.He fell to the ground, his elbows blossoming in pain as they caught his weight, preventing his back and torso from slamming to the hard ground._

_“Hanzo...” he heard her voice, and he felt his stomach twist.He swung himself around, and there she stood; blonde hair glittered like gold under an unknown spotlight.She looked so simple, yet so beautiful, in wool pajamas, hair tussled, and freshly woken crispness to the concern on her face.Blue eyes looked at him with concern, and her brows tugged together with worry, “Where are we..?What is this place..?”_

_“Angela,” he scrambled to stand, but his feet kept slipping.There was warmth beneath his palms.He looked down—the tile floor was covered an inch deep in red blood—and he felt sick.The thick smell of copper rose, digging into his senses like a rusty axe, but he tried to rise.His hands slipped, his feet refused to gain traction, and he floundered, staining his white clothing red as the blood splattered with each of his movements.She stood, unaware of the liquid around her feet, her blue eyes canvassing the lurching shadows.Arms came to wrap themselves around her chest as she began to shiver, “Come here, Angela.Get away from the black...”_

_She was frozen in place, trembling.He saw the black tar of the edge of his visions begin to leech into the blood like black veins.They forked and twisted, like roots, shooting across the floor.The writhing hands and arms spasmed, and then lurched forward.One finally grabbed her ankle—she did not notice at first—and it was quickly followed by another hand.They jerked, and, with her eyes widening, she fell.A soft scream emitted from her lips as the hands pressed forward, grabbing onto every inch of fabric that they could—the fervor they displayed caused most of them to loosen their grips almost the moment they had managed it—and the black tar left sticky threads behind from where they let go.She kicked, trying to scoot away from them, the blood making that almost impossible, “Hanzo... Hanzo, help, Hanzo..!”_

_He tried to stand again, and managed to find his footing.He lurched forward, feeling his feet sliding underneath him, and managed to keep his balance.As he ran towards her, he realized the distance never got any closer...“Angela, come here..!Please, Angela!Turn around, look at me!”_

_She looked over her shoulder—there were black smears across her face from the hands as they were able to reach further up her body as they slowly tugged her towards their mass—and she had tears streaking down her cheeks, “Hanzo, what is happening?”_

_“Angela...” He struggled towards her again, and fell, screaming to his subconscious, “Please, stop.Stop.Stop!”_

_“HANZO!” She screamed, and when he looked, she was nothing more than shoulders and one arm—the shadows had pulled her in—her blonde hair was streaked with black and blood, her eyes wide in horror.Beautiful lips curved into a sad frown, she reached out towards him, “HANZO, PLEASE HELP ME!”_

_He sat back on his heels, his arms resting in his lap, coated in clotting blood.His eyes burned as tears ran down his cheeks, “I can not, Angela...”_

_“HANZO”—her voice gurgled, and he looked up at her; she was all but gone, just some blonde curls and blue eyes remained outside the back tar—“... Hanzo, please...”_

_The silence that was left after her disappearance was so loud it felt deafening.His eyes closed, and he hung his head in failure.The darkness lurched again, hungry and temperamental, closing around him.Hands fervently reaching out in waves, trying to grab him.Finally, they did—they were surprisingly warm—and he refused to struggle.They grabbed at him, pawing at his clothing and his hair, eventually finding an anchor to grip on him.Once they did, they would jerk and spasm, trying to pull him towards the mass.It did not take long for them to get enough grips to begin to slide him across the bloodstained floor.When they did, he forced himself to relax, and the darkness engulfed him._


	9. 9. Reinhardt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning again; sorry about the delay :)

**REINHARDT.**

_Some thirty-three years ago._

_Angry, blatantly drunken old oaf—foolery, dawned in motley;_

_A cloth’d helmet jingles with silver bells, ov’r golden locks._

_Wave your lance high, high in the air, and off your steed you topple free,_

_Rollin’ drunkenly in the grass to a choir of haughty laughs._

“You...” He muttered into his ale, eyes narrowed at the dark brown liquid, the foam crackling like cereal, “... can not be serious?”

“Oh, I am,” she frowned; he didn’t see the actual droop in her lips, but he heard it in her voice.Her majestically calm vocals, which had warmed his heart since he had first heard them before, sounded defeated... For the first time, someone of her caliber sounded beat—tired, as if her youth was suddenly forsaken, and the weight of each life she had taken throughout her tenure of service was pulling her down.She sounded so much wiser than her years would portray, but he knew that, regardless of the tone and texture of her voice, or the misleading beauty her youth gave her, Ana was knowledgeable.She was also prone to mistakes.Not when it came to her job, of course—a sniper with her awards and medals would not be afforded such if she happened to professionally slip up here and there—but when it came to her livelihood.She was a protector—she valued that about herself—as she only killed out of necessity, and, more-often-than-naught, only in exchange for the survival of a more innocent life.But, for instance, when it came to debt, she was not known to be the best at management—but, he could not blame her, for he, himself, had wracked up many a bill on certain... websites; or, if one were to look at her track record at the races; Ana was not one that was the best at bill management, either... in a time where most set up their repetitive necessities to be auto-debited, she refused, and, more often than naught, due to simple absent-mindedness, her cellphone would suffer a few disconnects.But, this? 

Reinhardt scowled into the tankard; big shoulders scrunched as he wrinkled his nose.He had suddenly lost a taste for the German-made lager, and he timidly pushed the glass away with one large finger, “Really, Ana?”

“Really.”

“Like, _really_ , Ana?”He turned towards her; blonde hair, with speckles of grey here and there, glittered, tousled, in the dim light of the old tap house.His beard, scruffy, showed how busy he had been recently—it lacked a good trim—flitting around the globe on this-or-that mission on the behest of Jack Morrison.The most recent had garnered the German a nice tan, which brought out the small strands of deep gold in his hair.He liked the way he looked with some keratin in his skin... as had the ladies, which made him like it even more, “This is not you.How are you supposed to manage, now?”

Ana blinked at him; eyes so dark a brown, they looked black, rolled with annoyance, and one thin hand brushed a loose lock of straight, shiny onyx hair out of her face, “The same way I manage now..?”

“That simply isn’t done,” Reinhardt proclaimed all-knowingly, “Look at Morrison?—oh, fuck, better yet, look at Torbjörn.”

If it were possible, she would have looked even more annoyed, “Not everything can be relatable to the Swedish dwarf.”

“Why not?” Reinhardt offered a grin, “Everyone loves the Swedes.Including Swedish Fish.”

“That candy is the worst candy in the candy store,” Ana crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers drumming against her bicep; olive skin, shadowed beautifully by her heritage, contrasted against the white tee-shirt she was wearing, tucked, messily, into acid-washed jeans.Her feet were adorned by her military boots, and, what hair wasn’t hanging whimsically loose about her face was tied back in a high pony-tail with a hot-pink ‘scrunchie’.She looked young, beautiful, sassy... all of which, she was, “In fact, when Torbjörn got that for everyone for Christmas, we all threw it away.His jokes are almost as bad as yours.”

“Hey,” Reinhardt attempted to look affronted, “my jokes are not terrible.”

“I almost missed my shot the last time you told one,” she tapped her foot with growing anxiety.

“It was good.”

“It was bad.”

“It was great,” Reinhardt countered, puffing his chest, “How to penguins build their houses..?They igloo them together!”

She sighed.

“C’mon,” he clapped his hands together, “it was a classic.Even Morrison laughed.”

“Morrison _sneezed_.He had a cold,” Ana chewed her bottom lip.She was troubled—she thought she was acting smooth, but he knew.He had caught onto the nervousness.He wasn’t the oaf most thought he was, and she wasn’t as slick as she believed herself to be.

“It sure sounded like a laugh to me,” Reinhardt shrugged, blue eyes holding contact with her dark gaze, praying for even the slightest of a twinkle, “especially because he told me that he wanted to hear more later.”

“ _No_ ,” she said, “he said he _didn’t_ ever want to hear another.”

“The radio was staticky,” Reinhardt offered her a cocky smirk, “I understand you didn’t hear him right.”

“Rein...” she sighed, one delicate hand moved to rub her temple, “... is this... are you okay with this..?”

‘Serious’ was not something he did well.She wanted to be serious.This was supposed to be a difficult discussion, and he wasn’t taking in the gravity of it properly.Or, rather, he wasn’t reacting the way she had wanted or expected him to react.The problem, he noted, was that he was not that serious of a person—he never had been, and he wouldn’t begin to be now—and this simple flaw in his persona was probably why they were having this discussion in the first place.Thus, when her dark eyes looked at him again, slowly finding his blue gaze, he frowned, properly, and his shoulders drooped with defeat, “Have I a choice, Ana?”

It was her turn to look defeated.She sat down on the stool next to him, crossing her legs elegantly, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” He repeated, turning towards her; they looked so young together, she in her acid-washed denim, and he in his dark-pressed jeans.

“I mean,” she frowned up at him, “I don’t know.”

“Well, you love him, right?”Reinhardt shrugged, “If you do, then I don’t see why this shouldn’t be the next step..?”

“I do love Sam,” she said, “but, that’s not the problem...”

“What is?” He asked; he felt his stomach lurch.It wasn’t fear that twisted his gut, it was hope.It felt cruel, all of a sudden, this conversation.

She looked up at him, biting her lower lip, “We have... worked... together, a lot.”

“I know,” he said, his voice blank of emotion; ‘worked’ meant something that didn’t involve company time.They both knew that.In fact, if anyone was listening in on their conversation, the insinuation would be as clear as daylight.They ‘worked’ a lot together—frequently, at night—for the past year, now.All the while, she was engaged.

“And...” Ana continued to chew on her lip, “... we said nothing would come of it, right?”

He suddenly wanted something stronger than beer, “We are adults.”

“Something has come of it,” she muttered.

He blinked.Hope.She loved him?—maybe?—hopefully?This wasn’t just loneliness?He wasn’t just an effigy to warm her bed when she was on missions that would take her away from her fiancé for months?“What is that?”

“I’m pregnant.Sam can’t know it’s not his.”


End file.
